But, like other excellent devices, the expedient was only a nominal one, and few out of the doomed hundred and eighty were ignorant of the offence which their companions had committed.

The more guilty boasted of their superiority in vice; the petty criminals swore that their guilt was blacker than it appeared.

Moreover, a deed so bloodthirsty and a respite so unexpected, had invested the name of Rufus Dawes with a grim distinction, which his superior mental abilities, no less than his haughty temper and powerful frame, combined to support.

A young man of two-and-twenty owning to no friends, and existing among them but by the fact of his criminality, he was respected and admired.

The vilest of all the vile horde penned between decks, if they laughed at his "fine airs" behind his back, cringed and submitted when they met him face to face--for in a convict ship the greatest villain is the greatest hero, and the only nobility acknowledged by that hideous commonwealth is that Order of the Halter which is conferred by the hand of the hangman.
The young man on the poop caught sight of the tall figure leaning against the bulwarks, and it gave him an excuse to break the monotony of his employment.
"Here, you!" he called with an oath, "get out of the gangway!" Rufus Dawes was not in the gangway--was, in fact, a good two feet from it, but at the sound of Lieutenant Frere's voice he started, and went obediently towards the hatchway.
"Touch your hat, you dog!" cries Frere, coming to the quarter-railing.
"Touch your damned hat! Do you hear ?" Rufus Dawes touched his cap, saluting in half military fashion.