"Mr Michael Ladelle." Vince might have been speaking to the tub upon which his fellow-prisoner was seated, for all the movement made.
"Michael Ladelle, Esquire, of the Mount," said Vince; and there was a good-humoured look in his eyes, which twinkled merrily; but the other did not stir.
"Ladle, then," cried Vince; but without effect,--Mike was still gazing at the sand before him.
"I say, don't be such a sulky old Punch.

Why don't you speak?
I want to talk to you about getting away.

Mike--Ladle--I say, you did hurt when you hit out at me.

I shall have to pay you that back!" No answer.
"Look here: aren't you going to say you're sorry for it and shake hands ?" Vince waited for a while and then burst out impatiently,-- "Look here, if you don't speak I'll kick the tub over and let you down." All in vain: Mike did not move, and Vince began to grow impatient.
"Here, I say," he cried, "I know I'm a bit of a beast sometimes, but you can't say I'm sulky.

I did nothing; and if it was I, you know I'd have owned I was in the wrong and held out my fist--open; not like you did, to knock a fellow down." Another pause, and Vince exclaimed,-- "Well, I _am_--" He did not say what, but stood with extended arm.
"I say, Mikey," he said softly, "I know you haven't got any eyes in the back of your head, so I may as well tell you.