necessary that we should put on ordinary clothes—for what vessel, picking us up, but would have delivered us up at the first port it touched at, had we been in convict dress? We marked the purser's slop-chest, which was under a tent, and well filled, and–"
"Do get on, Tom!"
"Here goes, then! One calm, but dark night, when other people were sleeping, we stole down to the creek, five of us, rigged ourselves out in the purser's toggery, leaving the Government uniforms in exchange, unmoored one of the cutters, and got quietly away. We had secreted some bread and salt meat; water there had been already on board. The wind was off the land, and we let the boat drift before it a bit before attempting to make sail. By daylight we were far enough from the island; no chance of their seeing us—a speck on the waters. The wind, hitherto south, had backed to the westward. We shaped a course by the sun to the eastward, and sailed along at the rate of five or six knots. My comrades were not as rough as they might have been; rather decent fellows for convicts. Two of them were from Essex; had been sentenced for poaching only. Now began our lookout: constantly straining our eyes along the horizon for a sail, but especially astern for an outward-bounder, but only saw one or two in the distance that did not see us. What I underwent in that boat as day after day passed, and no sail appeared, I won't enter upon now, old fellow. The provisions were exhausted, and so was the water. One by one three of my companions went crazy and died. The survivor and I had consigned the last of them to the deep on the twelfth day, and then I thought my turn had come; but Markham was worse than I was. How many hours went on, I knew not. I lay at the bottom of the boat, exhausted and half unconscious, when suddenly I heard voices. I imagined it to be a dream. But in a few minutes a boat was alongside the cutter, and two of its crew had stepped over and were raising me up. They spoke to me, but I was too weak to understand or answer; in fact, I was delirious. I and Markham were taken on board and put to bed. After some days, passed in a sort of dreamy, happy delirium, well cared for and attended to, I woke up to the realities of life. Markham was dead: he had never revived, and died of exposure and weakness some hours after the rescue."
"What vessel had picked you up?"
"It was the Discovery, a whaler belonging to Whitby, and homeward bound. The captain, Van Hoppe, was Dutch by birth, but had been reared in England and had always sailed in English ships. A good and kind fellow, if ever there was one. Of course, I had to make my tale good and suppress the truth. The passenger-ship in which I was sailing to Australia to seek my fortune had foundered in mid-ocean, and those who escaped with me had died of their sufferings. That was true so far. Captain Van Hoppe took up my misfortunes warmly. Had he been my own brother—had he been you, Charley—he could not have treated me better or cared for me more. The vessel had a prosperous run home. She was bound for the port of London; and when I put my hand into Van Hoppe's at parting, and tried to thank him for his goodness, he left a twenty-pound note in it. 'You'll need it, Mr. Strange,' he said; 'you can repay me when your fortune's made and you are rich.'"
"Strange!" I cried.
Tom laughed.
"I called myself 'Strange' on the whaler. Don't know that it was wise of me. One day when I was getting better and lay deep in thought—which just then chanced to be of you, Charley—the mate suddenly asked me what my name was. 'Strange,' I answered, on the spur of the moment. That's how it was. And that's the brief history of my escape."
"You have had money, then, for your wants since you landed," I remarked.
"I have had the twenty pounds. It's coming to an end now."
"You ought not to have come to London. You should have got the captain to put you ashore somewhere, and then made your escape from England."
"All very fine to talk, Charley! I had not a sixpence in my pocket, or any idea that he was going to help me. I could only come on as far as the vessel would bring me."
"And suppose he had not given you money—what then?"
"Then I must have contrived to let you know that I was home again, and borrowed from you," he lightly replied.
"Well, your being here is frightfully dangerous."
"Not a bit of it. As long as the police don't suspect I am in England, they won't look after me. It's true that a few of them might know me, but I do not think they would in this guise and with my altered face."
"You were afraid of one to-night."
"Well, he is especially one who might know me; and he stood there so long that I began to think he might be watching me. Anyway, I've been on shore these three weeks, and nothing has come of it yet."
"What about that young lady named Betsy? Miss Betsy Lee."
Tom threw himself back in a fit of laughter.
"I hear the old fellow went down to Essex Street one night to ascertain whether I lived there! The girl asked me one day where I lived, and I rapped out Essex Street."
"But, Tom, what have you to do with the girl?"
"Nothing; nothing. On my honour. I have often been in the shop, sometimes of an evening. The father has invited me to some grog in the parlour behind it, and I have sat there for an hour chatting with him and the girl. That's all. She is a well-behaved, modest little girl; none better."
"Well, Tom, with one imprudence and another, you stand a fair chance–"
"There, there! Don't preach, Charley. What you call imprudence, I call fun."
"What do you think of doing? To remain on here for ever in this disguise?"
"Couldn't, I expect, if I wanted to. I must soon see about getting away."
"You must get away at once."
"I am not going yet, Charley; take my word for that; and I am as safe in London, I reckon, as I should be elsewhere. Don't say but I may have to clear out of this particular locality. If that burly policeman is going to make a permanent beat of it about here, he might drop upon me some fine evening."
"And you must exchange your sailor's disguise, as you call it, for a better one."
"Perhaps so. That rough old coat you have on, Charley, might not come amiss to me."
"You can have it. Why do you fear that policeman should know you, more than any other?"
"He was present at the trial last August. Was staring me in the face most of the day. His name's Wren."
I sighed.
"Well, Tom, it is getting late; we have sat here as long as is consistent with safety," I said, rising.
He made me sit down again.
"The later the safer, perhaps, Charley. When shall we meet again?"
"Ay; when, and where?"
"Come to-morrow evening, to this same spot. It is as good a one as any I know of. I shall remain indoors all day tomorrow. Of course one does not care to run needlessly into danger. Shall you find your way to it?"
"Yes, and will be here; but I shall go now. Do be cautious, Tom. Do you want any money? I have brought some with me."
"Many thanks, old fellow; I've enough to go on with for a day or two. How is Blanche? Did she nearly die of the disgrace?"
"She did not know of it. Does not know it yet."
"No!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, how can it have been kept from her? She does not live in a wood."
"Level has managed it, somehow. She was abroad during the trial, you know. They have chiefly lived there since, Blanche seeing no English newspapers; and, of course, her acquaintances do not gratuitously speak to her about it. But I don't think it can be kept from her much longer."
"But where does she think I am—all this time?"
"She thinks you are in India with the regiment."
"I suppose he was in a fine way about it!"
"Level? Yes—naturally; and is still. He would have saved you, Tom, at any cost."
"As you would, and one or two more good friends; but, you see, I did not know what was coming upon me in time to ask them. It fell