‘None of your impudence, you jackanapes. I tell you I do not scheme. I act on the spur of the moment. If I had lain awake a week planning I could have done nothing better. The inspiration comes to me the moment I require it. Your vulgar man always does the wrong thing when an emergency arises. By heaven, Watt! this is a dog’s life I am leading, and not worth living. I am shivering. The damp worms into one’s bones. I shall go out on the Rock.’
‘O, Martin, stay here. It is warmer in this hut. A cold wind blows.’
‘It is midwinter here, and can’t be more Siberia-like out there. I am sick of the smell of dry leaves. I am tired of looking at withered sticks. The monotony of this place is unendurable. I wish I were back in prison.’
‘I will play my violin to amuse you,’ said the boy.
‘Curse your fiddle, I do not want to have that squeaking in my ears; besides, it is sure to be out of tune with the damp, and screw up as you may, before you have gone five bars it is flat again. Why has Eve not been here to tell me of what she saw in Plymouth?’
‘My dear Martin, you must consider. She dare not come here. You cannot keep open house, and send round cards of invitation, with “Mr. Martin Babb at home.”’
‘I don’t care. I shall go on the Rock, and have a fire.’
‘A fire!’ exclaimed Watt, aghast.
‘Why not? I am cold, and my rheumatism is worse. I won’t have rheumatic fever for you or all the Jordans and Jaspers in Devonshire.’
‘I entreat you, be cautious. Remember you are in hiding. You have already been twice caught.’