It was evident that Floyd's refusal to make free had branded him at once with the stamp of unpopularity. But the young man had other thoughts to occupy his mind. He was pondering upon his own terrible plight and upon Shagarach's visit. Fully an hour must have passed in these reflections, for it was very dark, when they were disturbed by a low remark from his left-hand neighbor.
"Say, chummy, I hain't one of these 'ere bloomin' mutineers."
It was a wheezy voice and Floyd remembered to have heard at intervals from that quarter one of those racking coughs which distress the listener almost as much as the sufferer. The man seemed to be in the rear of his cell and to have his mouth to the wall. Robert said nothing, but his interest was languidly aroused.
"Say, get into the hospital, Dobbs," remarked a voice that was beginning to be familiar to Robert.
"I 'ave been in the 'ospital, you unfeelin', bloomin' coves," replied the asthmatic prisoner.
"Ho, ee's Henglish, ee his," said some one, whereupon there was a faint storm of laughter. Robert's sympathy was enlisted on the side of the man called Dobbs. His uncle had been an Englishman and the national feeling was strong in the nephew. Speaking as low as possible, so that the others might not hear, he said to Dobbs:
"You are an Englishman? This is bad company you've got into."
"Lord, me boy, Hi know that—a scurvy job lot o' bloomin' ordinary coves as I'd cut dead if Hi was a gentleman of fortune. But you see Hi hain't. Being only Bill Dobbs, Hi can't afford to preach hinnocence, and choose me hown 'ouse-mates, like a juke."
The cough choked his utterance for awhile and evoked further remonstrance from the yawning crew around him.
"What is your sentence?" asked Robert.