“I prefer the iron-gang.”
“To my house—my protection—my friendship?”
Horror and mortification were in the rich, strong tones, and in the flushed and swarthy face.
“I prefer the iron-gang,” repeated Tom; but his voice was weaker—he noticed it himself—and with the next breath was crying savagely that he would not go, that he would stop where he was, and who was Daintree to come interfering there? A lot he minded what the Governor or what fifty Governors said; there he was, and there he meant to stick; no power on earth should shift him out of that.
“Oh!” said the major. “No power, eh?”
“Short of a file of red-coats, which you can’t spare.”
“Sentry, remove that man!”
The rest of the gang were at supper. Tom clanked in and sat down with a rattle. He nodded to one or two desperate kindred spirits, half proudly, as much as to say, “All right, my lads; I’m not the man to desert his pals; I’m true game to those that are true game to me—I’m that if I’m nothing else.” Those indeed were the words in his heart; but nobody answered his nod, only some irons jingled, where Creasey had reached out under the table, and given Macbeth a kick.
As they were all shuffling out of the mess-shed, Butter took a pill of paper from his mouth and pressed it into Tom’s hand. Tom unrolled it on his ledge, and furtively read it while the sentry still stood with his lantern on the threshold.
These eleven words:—
“All up since fleater went Mac and Cresy mean to squeek.”
