Here,
at least, was freedom. Here, at least, he was his own master: free to
enjoy strong drinks and strong tobacco--free to be lazy when he
pleased, and to work after the fashion that suited him best.
He seated himself in one chair, and planted his legs on another. Then
he took a short clay pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it, and
began to smoke, in a slow meditative manner, stopping every now and
then to mutter to himself, between the puffs of tobacco.
Mr. Milsom had finished his second pipe of shag tobacco, and had given
utterance to more than one exclamation of anger and impatience, when
the door was opened, and Dennis Wayman made his appearance, bearing a
tray with a couple of covered dishes and a large pewter pot.
"I thought I'd bring you your grub myself, mate," he said; "though I'm
precious busy in yonder. I'm uncommonly glad to see you back again.
I've been wondering where you was ever since you disappeared."
"You'd have left off wondering if you'd known I was on the other side
of this blessed world of ours. I thought you knew I was--"
Mr. Milsom's delicacy of feeling prevented his finishing this speech.
"I knew you had got into trouble," answered Mr. Wayman. "At least, I
didn't know for certain, but I guessed as much; though sometimes I was
half inclined to think you had turned cheat, and given me the slip."
"Bolted with the swag, I suppose you mean?"
"Precisely!" answered Dennis Wayman, coolly.
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