Page 60 - for-the-term-of-his-natural-life

scream broke from the wretched tailor.
‘Help! they’re killing me! Ah-h-h-!’
‘Wot’s the matter,’ roared the silencer of the riot, jumping
from his berth, and scattering the Crow and his compan-
ions right and left. ‘Let him be, can’t yer?’
‘H’air!’ cried the poor devil—‘h’air; I’m fainting!’
Just then there came another groan from the man in
the opposite bunk. ‘Well, I’m blessed!’ said the giant, as
he held the gasping tailor by the collar and glared round
him. ‘Here’s a pretty go! All the blessed chickens ha’ got the
croup!’
The groaning of the man in the bunk redoubled.
‘Pass the word to the sentry,’ says someone more humane
than the rest. ‘Ah,’ says the humorist, ‘pass him out; it’ll be
one the less. We’d rather have his room than his company.’
‘Sentry, here’s a man sick.’
But the sentry knew his duty better than to reply. He was
a young soldier, but he had been well informed of the artful-
ness of convict stratagems; and, moreover, Captain Vickers
had carefully apprised him ‘that by the King’s Regulations,
he was forbidden to reply to any question or communica-
tion addressed to him by a convict, but, in the event of being
addressed, was to call the non-commissioned officer on
duty.’ Now, though he was within easy hailing distance of
the guard on the quarter-deck, he felt a natural disinclina-
tion to disturb those gentlemen merely for the sake of a sick
convict, and knowing that, in a few minutes, the third relief
would come on duty, he decided to wait until then.
In the meantime the tailor grew worse, and began to