The man turned himself, and without raising his eyes from the stone floor, poured out a volley of curses which fully justified the turnkey’s description.
Jim started, and uttered a quick exclamation. But it was not at the curses, terrible as they were. No, his amazement was of another kind altogether; for in the face and voice of this unhappy speaker he was forcibly reminded of one he once knew in very different scenes. As the man went on he watched him keenly and earnestly. He heeded not the oaths, or the taunts, or the threats which flowed from his lips; but as word followed word, and gesture gesture, and look look, he became gradually convinced that the resemblance was more than imaginary—that, indeed, this blaspheming convict was one whom he had once known and still remembered.
Walking up to him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, Jim said, quietly,—
“Tom Drift, do you remember me?”
The man started as for an instant he raised his eyes. Then, letting them drop once more, he growled,—
“That’s not my name; I don’t know you. Let me alone!”
Jim, more convinced than ever, now did the wisest thing he could in leaving the cell without another word.
“Well,” said the turnkey, with a half-triumphant grin, as they turned to leave the gallery, “wasn’t I right? Didn’t he give you half a dozen as pretty bits of language as you ever heard?”
“Do not speak to me about it, please,” replied Jim, more tartly than he had been ever known to speak to any one.
He did not return to the gaol for a week; and then the first visit he paid was to the new prisoner’s cell.