things shorter if you don’t. What chance do you think you’ve got? Ah!—it’s too late to look that way now, you old fool!”
The doctor’s eyes were on his convict huts; the men were pouring out of them pell-mell. Hookey Simpson wheeled his horse, and rode up to them with a magnificent air; dropping his reins to wave his battered chimney-pot, as if it were a general’s cocked hat.
“My lads,” cried he, “your kind master would call upon you to stand by him in his hour of need. Now’s the time to show him your gratitude. Stop! stop!—not all of you at once!” And with his horse he stemmed a rush of zealous spirits who explained themselves in chorus as they unwillingly fell back.
“Stand by him?” cried one. “Get at him, you mean! Only give us the word, and we’ll take him off your hands—”
“And cut his throat—”
“An’ slit his juggler—”
“And Nat’s after—”
“The bluidy tyrants!”
Hookey waved them back.
“Is there a single man who’ll take the coves’ side in the time of need? Let him speak now or for ever after hold his mouth!”
Not a convict stirred.
“Then,” said Hookey, “you leave the rest to us, and don’t you interfere. You’re dead men if you do, but free men if you stop where you are. Your blood be on your own heads!”
And he cantered back to the palisade, with his chimneypot hat on the side of his head, and the hook stuck rakishly against his ribs.
