There was a fire in the rusty grate (for though the spring was pretty
far advanced, the nights were cold), and on a stool beside it Hugh sat
smoking. Dennis placed a chair, his only one, for the secretary, in
front of the hearth; and took his seat again upon the stool he had left
when he rose to give the visitor admission.
'What's in the wind now, Muster Gashford?' he said, as he resumed his
pipe, and looked at him askew. 'Any orders from head-quarters? Are we
going to begin? What is it, Muster Gashford?'
'Oh, nothing, nothing,' rejoined the secretary, with a friendly nod to
Hugh. 'We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt to-day--eh,
Dennis?'
'A very little one,' growled the hangman. 'Not half enough for me.'
'Nor me neither!' cried Hugh. 'Give us something to do with life in
it--with life in it, master. Ha, ha!'
'Why, you wouldn't,' said the secretary, with his worst expression of
face, and in his mildest tones, 'have anything to do, with--with death
in it?'
'I don't know that,' replied Hugh. 'I'm open to orders. I don't care;
not I.'
'Nor I!' vociferated Dennis.
'Brave fellows!' said the secretary, in as pastor-like a voice as if he
were commending them for some uncommon act of valour and generosity.
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