Tomaso's Fortune and Other Stories Part 6

"Oh, the police have got a clue--as usual," replied the fisherman.

The escaped convict laughed bitterly, but the laugh broke off into a sickening cackle.

"I've been in those brickworks," he said, "all the time, meditating murder. I stole a loaf from a baker's cart; but man cannot live by bread alone; ah! Ha! ha!"

The fisherman held out his flask, which the other took, and opened the somewhat uncommon silver top with ease bred of knowledge.

He poured himself out a full gla.s.s and drank it off.

"I haven't had that taste in my mouth for four years," he said, returning the flask. "And you are guilty of felony!"

The fisherman probably knew this, for he merely laughed.

"Do you know Prince Town?" the convict asked abruptly.

The other nodded, glancing in the direction of the rising moor.

"And you've read the rules on the gate? Parcere subjectis, cut in the stone over the top. Good G.o.d!"

The fisherman nodded again.

"The question is," said the convict, after a pause, during which they had waded back to the bank, "whether you are going to help me or not?

Heavens! I NEARLY killed you while you were playing that fish."

"Ya-as," drawled the fisherman. "I take it that you must have been tempted. I never heard you, owing to the rush of the water."

They were both big men, and the convict stared curiously into the long, clean-shaven face of this calm speaker. A smile actually flickered for a moment in his desperate eyes.

"What I want," he said, "is your mackintosh, your waders, and your hat--also your rod-case with a long stick in it. The handle of your landing-net will do. Where do you come from?"

"Plymouth. I am going back by the seven-thirty from Horrabridge."

"With a return ticket?"

"Yes."

"I should like that also."

The fisherman was slowly disjointing his rod.

"Suppose I told you to come and take 'em?" he said, with the drawl again.

The convict looked him up and down with a certain air of competent criticism.

"Then there would be a very pretty fight," he said, with a laugh, which he checked when he detected the savour of the prison-yard that was in it.

"We haven't time for the fight," said the fisherman.

And there came a hot gasp of excitement from the convict's lips. His stake was a very large one.

In the same slow, reflective manner, the fisherman unb.u.t.toned the straps of his waders at the thigh, and sat down to unlace his brogues.

"Here," he said, "pull 'em off for me. They're so d.a.m.nably sopped."

He held up his leg, and the convict pulled off the wet fishing-stockings with some technical skill.

He drew them on over his own stockinged legs, and the fisherman kicked the brogues towards him. In exchange the convict handed him his own shoes.

"Am I to wear these?" the fisherman asked, with something in his voice that might have been amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Yes; they're a little out of shape, I'm afraid. The Queen is no judge of a shoe."

"I guess not!" answered the other, lacing.

There was a little silence.

"I suppose," said the convict, with a curious eagerness, "that you have seen a bit of the world?"

"Here and there," answered the other, searching for the return half of his ticket.

"Should you think, now, that a girl would wait four years for a chap who, in the eyes of the world, was not worth waiting for?"

The fisherman, not being an absolute fool, knew that there was only one answer to give. But he was a kind-hearted man, so he told a lie. There was something about this convict that made him do it.

"Yes; I should think she would. Girls are not always rational, I guess."

The other said nothing. He took the mackintosh-coat and the creel and the rod-case without a word--even of thanks. His manners were brisker, as if the angler's lie had done him good. The change of costume was now complete, and the convict would pa.s.s anywhere for an innocent disciple of Isaac Walton.

For a moment they stood thus, looking at each other. Then the convict spoke.

"Can you lend me a fiver?" he asked.

"Oh yes!"

Carelessly opening his purse, and displaying a good number of bank-notes, he pa.s.sed one to the unsteady hand held out.

"Want any more?" he asked, with a queer laugh.

"I'll take another if you can spare it."

A second note pa.s.sed from hand to hand.

"Thanks," said the convict. "Now, tell me your name and address; I shall want to send these things back to you if--if I have any luck."

And the effort to steady his voice was quite apparent.

"Caleb S. Harkness, United States frigate Bruiser, now lying at Plymouth," replied the other, tersely.

"Ah! you are an American?"