"I did just buy it. It's there in your hand. You're a free man."
Farrell sat staring at the paper, examining the stamped wax seal and attempting to decipher the writing. A sudden silence enveloped the crowd, punctuated by another round of musket fire from the Assembly Room. After it died away, Winston continued, "Now Farrell, if you'd care to be part of an expedition of mine that'll be leaving Barbados in a few days' time, that's your privilege. Starting tonight, your pay'll be five shillings a week."
"Beggin' Yor Worship's pardon, I reckon I'm not understandin' what you've said. You've bought this contract? An' you've already marked it paid?"
"With those sight bills." He pointed to the packet on the ground beside Briggs.
Farrell glanced at the leather bundle skeptically. Then he looked back at Winston. "An' now you're sayin' I'm free?"
"It's stamped on that contract. Have somebody read it if you care to."
"An' I can serve Yor Worship for wage if I like?" His voice began to rise.
"Five shillings a week for now. Maybe more later, if you . . ."
"Holy Mother Mary an' all the Saints! I'm free!" He crumpled the paper into his pocket, then leaped up as he flung his straw hat into the air. "Free! I ne'er thought I'd stay breathin' long enough to hear the word." He glanced quickly at the Assembly Room, then dismissed the danger as he began to dance beside the logs.
"At the dirty end o' Dirty Lane,