“Well, Erichsen,” it said, “it’s a small world, ain’t it?”
Tom looked up, and saw the bullet-head nodding at him across the table; but so bloated and debauched was the low face that he was some moments in recognising his old companion of the condemned cell in Newgate.
“Don’t look at a pal like that,” continued Creasey, with a smirk; “you’ve altered worse nor me. No ill-feeling, I say? I was that glad—”
“Silence!” cried the non-commissioned officer on duty. “No talking at your meals, young man, unless you want what-for!”
As for Tom, he had nothing for the newcomer but a surly contempt which he took no trouble to conceal. Creasey, on the other hand, was studiously civil to him on grasping Tom’s reputation in the stockade; and secret circumstances threw them not a little together.
“That’s a biter,” young Butterfield contrived to say to Tom, in a day or two; “where did he know you before?”
“Newgate.”
“He hates you.”
“Let him.”
“I’m jealous he’ll squeak!”
“He might if he dare.”
“How do you know he dursn’t?”
“Too many in it; he’d be torn to little bits. See here, Butter!”
“Yes, Erichsen?”
“You’re to keep out of it.”
“Not unless you do,” said the lad firmly.
“Me! I’m in it up to the neck—and all the better—but you’re different. You’re younger, your time’s
