rain laughed, so that their irons clanked more than
ever. They found it often inconvenient not to laugh at Mr. Troke's
humour. "Step down here, Dawes, and let me introduce you to your h'old
friends. They'll be glad to see yer, won't yer, boys? Why, bless
me, Dawes, we thort we'd lost yer! We thort yer'd given us the slip
altogether, Dawes. They didn't take care of yer in Hobart Town, I
expect, eh, boys? We'll look after yer here, Dawes, though. You won't
bolt any more."

"Take care, Mr. Troke," said a warning voice, "you're at it again! Let
the man alone!"

By virtue of an order transmitted from Hobart Town, they had begun to
attach the dangerous prisoner to the last man of the gang, riveting the
leg-irons of the pair by means of an extra link, which could be removed
when necessary, but Dawes had given no sign of consciousness. At the
sound of the friendly tones, however, he looked up, and saw a tall,
gaunt man, dressed in a shabby pepper-and-salt raiment, and wearing a
black handkerchief knotted round his throat. He was a stranger to him.

"I beg yer pardon, Mr. North," said Troke, sinking at once the bully in
the sneak. "I didn't see yer reverence."

"A parson!" thought Dawes with disappointment, and dropped his eyes.

"I know that," returned Mr. North, coolly. "If you had, you would have
been all butter and honey. Don't trouble yourself to tell a lie; it's
quite unnecessary."

Dawes looked up again. This was a strange parson.

"What's your name, my man?" said Mr. North, suddenly, catching his eye.

Rufus Dawes had intended to scowl, but the tone, sharply authoritative,
roused his automatic convict second nature, and he answered, almost
despite himself, "Rufus Dawes."

"Oh," said Mr. North, eyeing him with a curious air of expectation that
had something pitying in it. "This is the man, is it? I thought he was
to go to the Coal Mines."

"So he is," said Troke, "but we hain't a goin' to send there for a
fortnit, and in the meantime I'm to work him on the chain."

"Oh!" said Mr. North again. "Lend me your knife, Troke."

And then, before them all, this curious parson took a piece of tobacco
out of his ragged pocket, and cut off a "chaw" with Mr. Troke's knife.
Rufus Dawes felt what he had not felt for three days--an interest in
something. He stared at the parson in unaffected astonishment. Mr. North
perhaps mistook the meaning of his fixed stare, for he held out the
remnant of tobacco to him.

The chain l