“Hooroar!” cried Riderhood. “Does you credit! Hooroar! I cry chorus to the t’otherest.”
“What turn,” said Bradley, with an effort at self-repression that forced him to wipe his face, “did his insolence take today?”
“It took the turn,” answered Riderhood, with sullen ferocity, “of hoping as I was getting ready to be hanged.”
“Let him look to that,” cried Bradley. “Let him look to that! It will be bad for him when men he has injured, and at whom he has jeered, are thinking of getting hanged. Let him get ready for his fate, when that comes about. There was more meaning in what he said than he knew of, or he wouldn’t have had brains enough to say it. Let him look to it; let him look to it! When men he has wronged, and on whom he has bestowed his insolence, are getting ready to be hanged, there is a death-bell ringing. And not for them.”
Riderhood, looking fixedly at him, gradually arose from his recumbent posture while the schoolmaster said these words with the utmost concentration of rage and hatred. So, when the words were all spoken, he too kneeled on one knee on the grass, and the two men looked at one another.
“Oh!” said Riderhood, very deliberately spitting out the grass he had been chewing. “Then, I make out, t’otherest, as he is a-going to her?”
“He left London,” answered Bradley, “yesterday. I have hardly a doubt, this time, that at last he is going to her.”
“You ain’t sure, then?”
“I am as sure here,” said Bradley, with a clutch at the breast of his coarse shirt, “as if it was written there;” with a blow or a stab at the sky.