“If he is worth his salt he will not harbour revenge for what I have said or done,” persisted Dicky.
However, I observed that both he and Twig were more careful than before in their way of addressing the stranger. I heard them telling him where we had been and some of the adventures we had gone through.
“Have you ever been out in those parts, sir?” asked Tom.
“Yes, and I know something about them, but it is a good many years ago, probably before any of you young gentlemen were born, or so much as thought of,” answered the stranger.
“Have you been away from England lately?” asked Tom.
“For a good many years, young gentleman,” answered the stranger.
“To a distant station, I suppose—to North America or the West Indies?”
“No,” answered the stranger; “I have been where I hope you may never be, and where I may never be again—kept from all you love or care for on earth. I have been inside the walls of a French prison.”
“I hope not, indeed,” said Tom. “Parlez-vous Français, Monsieur?”
“As to that, I may understand a few words, but it is no pleasant matter to learn the lingo of one’s enemies, and I felt something like an old master who was shut up with me, and declared he would never prove such a traitor to his country as to learn one single French word all the time he was in prison.”