"Jeremy is a good-ish sort," he began, with a complacent flourish of the pipe, "a good-ish sort, but cross-grained—Lord! young cove, 'is cross-grainedness is ekalled only by 'is per-werseness, and 'cause why?—'cause 'e don't smoke—(go easy wi' the rum, Jeremy!) there's nothin' like a pipe o' 'bacca to soothe such things away (I got my eye on ye, Jeremy!)—no, there's nothin' like a pipe o' 'bacca. Look at me—I were the per-wersest infant that ever was, till I took to smokin', and to-day, whatever I am, I ain't per-werse, nor yet cross-grained, and many a misfort'nate cove, as is now no more—'as wept over me at partin'—" "They generally always do!" growled Jeremy, uncorking the rum-bottle with his teeth. "No, Jerry, no," returned the other, blowing out a cloud of smoke; "misfort'nates ain't all the same—(arter you wi' that bottle!)—you 'ave Cryers, and Laughers, and Pray-ers, and Silent Ones, and the silent coves is the dangerousest—(arter you wi' the bottle, Jeremy!)—now you, my covey," he went on, tapping my hand gently with his pipe-stem, "you ain't exactly talkative, in fact—not wishin' no offense, I might say as you was inclined to be one o' the Silent Ones. Not as I 'olds that again' you—far from it, only you reminds me of a young cove as 'ad the misfort'n to get 'isself took for forgery, and who—arter me a-talkin' and a-chattin' to 'im in my pleasant way—went and managed to commit sooicide—under my very nose—which were 'ardly nice, or even respectable, considerin'—(arter you wi' the bottle, Jeremy!)" Jeremy growled, held up the bottle to the failing light of evening, measured its contents with his thumb, and extended it unwillingly towards his comrade's ready hand; but it never got there, for, at that instant, the chaise lurched violently—there was a cry, a splintering of glass, a crash, and I was lying, half stunned, in a ditch, listening to the chorus of oaths and cries that rose from the cloud of dust where the frightened horses reared and plunged. How long I remained thus I cannot say, but, all at once, I found myself upon my feet, running down the road, for, hazy though my mind yet was, I could think only of escape, of liberty, and freedom—at any price—at any cost. So I ran on down the road, somewhat unsteadily as yet, because my fall had been a heavy one, and my brain still reeled. I heard a shout behind me—the sharp crack of a pistol, and a bullet sang over my head; and then I knew they were after me, for I could hear the patter of their feet upon the hard road. Now, as I ran, my brain cleared, but this only served me to appreciate the difficulty of eluding men so seasoned and hardy as my pursuers; moreover, the handcuffs galled my wrists, and the short connecting chain hampered my movements considerably, and I saw that, upon this straight level, I must soon be run down, or shot from behind.