I did not recognise
it at first.
"Blessed Vargen! but that wasn't your voice, Locke?"
"And who are you?"
"Tear and ages! and he don't know Mike Kelly!"
My first impulse was to catch him up in my arms, and run down-stairs with
him. I controlled myself, however, not knowing how far he might be in his
tyrant's power. But his voluble Irish heart burst out at once--
"Oh! blessed saints, take me out o' this! take me out for the love of
Jesus! take me out o' this hell, or I'll go mad intirely! Och! will nobody
have pity on poor sowls in purgatory--here in prison like negur slaves?
We're starved to the bone, we are, and kilt intirely with cowld."
And as he clutched my arm, with his long, skinny, trembling fingers, I
saw that his hands and feet were all chapped and bleeding. Neither shoe
nor stocking did he possess; his only garments were a ragged shirt and
trousers; and--and, and in horrible mockery of his own misery, a grand
new flowered satin vest, which to-morrow was to figure in some gorgeous
shop-window!
"Och! Mother of Heaven!" he went on, wildly, "when will I get out to the
fresh air? For five months I haven't seen the blessed light of sun, nor
spoken to the praste, nor ate a bit o' mate, barring bread-and-butter.
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