“When—where—how?” asked my uncle.
“Why, down at the Tinker’s Cove; a row between smugglers and revenue men. Red Frank shot Nat Davis through the heart—and he was all but taken, when a comrade floored two officers, and Frank gave leg-bail to the other.”
“Ha! that makes the other fellow an accessory after the fact; he’ll hang, that’s certain. Is he known?”
George Gripp answered with a wink; the wink was an affirmative one. “What’s his name? Will he be able to fee counsel, and employ a solicitor?” inquired the lawyer.
Gripp winked affirmatively.
“His name?”
“One very like your own.” was the reply.
My father started—“Speak, fellow, who was the murderer’s comrade?”
“Your son,” returned the bailiff, coldly.
“My son? William Rawlings? ’tis false, by Heaven!”