For the Term of His Natural Life. Marcus Andrew Hislop Clarke

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      “He's here now, isn't he, papa?” went on Sylvia, regardless of interruption. “Rufus Dawes is his name, and he's always in trouble. Poor fellow, I'm sorry for him. Danny says he's queer in his mind.”

      “And who's Danny?” asked Frere, with another laugh.

      “The cook,” replied Vickers. “An old man I took out of hospital. Sylvia, you talk too much with the prisoners. I have forbidden you once or twice before.”

      “But Danny is not a prisoner, papa—he's a cook,” says Sylvia, nothing abashed, “and he's a clever man. He told me all about London, where the Lord Mayor rides in a glass coach, and all the work is done by free men. He says you never hear chains there. I should like to see London, papa!”

      “So would Mr. Danny, I have no doubt,” said Frere.

      “No—he didn't say that. But he wants to see his old mother, he says. Fancy Danny's mother! What an ugly old woman she must be! He says he'll see her in Heaven. Will he, papa?”

      “I hope so, my dear.”

      “Papa!”

      “Yes.”

      “Will Danny wear his yellow jacket in Heaven, or go as a free man?”

      Frere burst into a roar at this.

      “You're an impertinent fellow, sir!” cried Sylvia, her bright eyes flashing. “How dare you laugh at me? If I was papa, I'd give you half an hour at the triangles. Oh, you impertinent man!” and, crimson with rage, the spoilt little beauty ran out of the room. Vickers looked grave, but Frere was constrained to get up to laugh at his ease.

      “Good! 'Pon honour, that's good! The little vixen!—Half an hour at the triangles! Ha-ha! ha, ha, ha!”

      “She is a strange child,” said Vickers, “and talks strangely for her age; but you mustn't mind her. She is neither girl nor woman, you see; and her education has been neglected. Moreover, this gloomy place and its associations—what can you expect from a child bred in a convict settlement?”

      “My dear sir,” says the other, “she's delightful! Her innocence of the world is amazing!”

      “She must have three or four years at a good finishing school at Sydney. Please God, I will give them to her when we go back—or send her to England if I can. She is a good-hearted girl, but she wants polishing sadly, I'm afraid.”

      Just then someone came up the garden path and saluted.

      “What is it, Troke?”

      “Prisoner given himself up, sir.”

      “Which of them?”

      “Gabbett. He came back to-night.”

      “Alone?” “Yes, sir. The rest have died—he says.”

      “What's that?” asked Frere, suddenly interested.

      “The bolter I was telling you about—Gabbett, your old friend. He's returned.”

      “How long has he been out?”

      “Nigh six weeks, sir,” said the constable, touching his cap.

      “Gad, he's had a narrow squeak for it, I'll be bound. I should like to see him.”

      “He's down at the sheds,” said the ready Troke—“a 'good conduct' burglar. You can see him at once, gentlemen, if you like.”

      “What do you say, Vickers?”

      “Oh, by all means.”

CHAPTER IV. THE BOLTER.

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      It was not far to the sheds, and after a few minutes' walk through the wooden palisades they reached a long stone building, two storeys high, from which issued a horrible growling, pierced with shrilly screamed songs. At the sound of the musket butts clashing on the pine-wood flagging, the noises ceased, and a silence more sinister than sound fell on the place.

      Passing between two rows of warders, the two officers reached a sort of ante-room to the gaol, containing a pine-log stretcher, on which a mass of something was lying. On a roughly-made stool, by the side of this stretcher, sat a man, in the grey dress (worn as a contrast to the yellow livery) of “good conduct” prisoners. This man held between his knees a basin containing gruel, and was apparently endeavouring to feed the mass on the pine logs.

      “Won't he eat, Steve?” asked Vickers.

      And at the sound of the Commandant's voice, Steve arose.

      “Dunno what's wrong wi' 'un, sir,” he said, jerking up a finger to his forehead. “He seems jest muggy-pated. I can't do nothin' wi' 'un.”

      “Gabbett!”

      The intelligent Troke, considerately alive to the wishes of his superior officers, dragged the mass into a sitting posture.

      Gabbett—for it was he—passed one great hand over his face, and leaning exactly in the position in which Troke placed him, scowled, bewildered, at his visitors.

      “Well, Gabbett,” says Vickers, “you've come back again, you see. When will you learn sense, eh? Where are your mates?”

      The giant did not reply.

      “Do you hear me? Where are your mates?”

      “Where are your mates?” repeated Troke.

      “Dead,” says Gabbett.

      “All three of them?”

      “Ay.”

      “And how did you get back?”

      Gabbett, in eloquent silence, held out a bleeding foot.

      “We found him on the point, sir,” said Troke, jauntily explaining, “and brought him across in the boat. He had a basin of gruel, but he didn't seem hungry.”

      “Are you hungry?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why don't you eat your gruel?”

      Gabbett curled his great lips.

      “I have eaten it. Ain't yer got nuffin' better nor that to flog a man on? Ugh! yer a mean lot! Wot's it to be this time, Major? Fifty?”

      And laughing, he rolled down again on the logs.

      “A nice specimen!” said Vickers, with a hopeless smile. “What can one do with such a fellow?”

      “I'd СКАЧАТЬ