oice of the other came from.

"No; I don't deserve to live, Paddy, so I shall remain and be hanged."

"I'll be hanged if ye do," said Paddy, with much decision. "Come, now,
don't be talkin' nonsense. It's jokin' ye are, av coorse."

"I'm very far from joking, my friend," returned Tom, in a tone of deep
despondency, "as you shall find when daylight returns. I am guilty--
more guilty than you fancy--so I shall plead guilty, whether tried or
not, and take the consequences. Besides, life is not worth having. I'm
tired of it!"

"Och! but we've bought you, an' paid for you, an' you've no manner o'
right to do what ye like wi' yourself," returned his exasperated chum.
"But it's of no use talkin' to ye. There's somethin' wrong wi' your
inside, no doubt. When I come back for ye at the right time you'll have
thought better of it. Come, now, give us your hand."

"I wish I could, Flinders, but the rascal that tied me has drawn the
cord so tight that I feel as if I had no hands at all."

"I'll soon putt that right. Where are ye? Ah, that's it, now, kape
stidy."

Flinders severed the cord with his bowie knife, unwound it, and set his
friend free.

"Now thin, remain where ye are till I come for ye; an' if any wan should
rap at the door an' ax where's the sintinel an' the kay, just tell him
ye don't know, an don't care; or, if ye prefer it, tell him to go an' ax
his grandmother."

With this parting piece of advice Flinders left the prisoner, locked the
door, put the key in his pocket, and went straight to Fred Westly, whom
he found seated beside the fire with his face buried in his hands.

"If Tom told you he wouldn't attempt to escape," said Westly, on hearing
the details of all that his eccentric friend had done, "you may be sure
that he'll stick to it."

"D'ye raaly think so, Muster Fred?" said his companion in deep anxiety.

"I do. I know Tom Brixton well, and when he is in this mood nothing
will move him. But, come, I must go to the prison and talk with him."

Fred's talk, however, was not more effective than that of his friend had
been.

"Well, Tom," he said, as he and Flinders were about to quit the
block-house, "we will return at the hour when the camp seems fairly
settled to sleep, probably about midnight, and I hope you will then be
ready to fly. Remember what Flinders says is so far true--your life has
been bought and the price paid, whether you accept or refuse it. Think
seriously of that befo