“The sick-list must go to the infirmary, I believe,” said Hawes, thoughtfully. “He'd beat us there. The justices will support me on every other point, because they must contradict themselves else. I'll have that fellow out of the jail, Fry, before a month is out, and meantime what can I do to be revenged on him?” “Punish 'em all the more,” suggested the simple-minded Fry. “No, that won't do; better keep a little quiet now till he is out of the jail. Fine it would look if he was really to bribe these vermin to bring actions against me, and subpoena himself and that sneaking dog, Evans.” “Well, sir, but if you turn him out he will do it all the more.” “You fool, can't you see the difference? If he comes into court a servant of the crown every lie he tells will go for gospel. But if he comes a disgraced servant, cashiered for refractory conduct, why then we could tell the jury it is all his spite at being turned off.” “You know a thing or two, sir,” whined the doleful Fry. Hawes passed him a fresh tumbler of grog, and pondered deeply and anxiously. But suddenly an idea flashed on him that extinguished his other meditations. “Give me the rules.” He ran his eye rapidly over them. “Why, no! of course not, what a fool I was not to see that half an hour ago.” “What is it, sir?” “Finish your grog first, and then I have a job for you.” He sat down and wrote two lines on a slip of paper. “Have you done?” “Yes, sir.” “Then take this order.” “Yes, sir.” “And the printed rules in your hand--here, take 'em.” “Yes, sir.” “And take Hodges and Evans with you, and tell me every word that sneaking dog, Evans, says and everything he does.” “Yes, sir. But what are we all three to do?” “Execute this order!”