Whilst he was thus raging after the man that had done his duty he heard a satirical chuckle.

He turned his head, and, behold! there was the sneering face of his fellow jail-bird Monckton.

Burnley started.
"Yes, mate," said Monckton, "it is me.

And what sort of a pal are you, that couldn't send me a word to Portland that you had dropped on to this rascal Hope?
You knew I was after him.

You might have saved me the trouble, you selfish brute." Burnley submitted at once to the ascendency of Monckton; he hung his head, and muttered, "I am no scholard to write to folk." "You grudged a joey to a bloke to write for you.