criticism.

"Then there would be a very pretty fight," he said, with a laugh,
which he checked when he detected the savour of the prison-yard that
was in it.

"We haven't time for the fight," said the fisherman.

And there came a hot gasp of excitement from the convict's lips.
His stake was a very large one.

In the same slow, reflective manner, the fisherman unbuttoned the
straps of his waders at the thigh, and sat down to unlace his
brogues.

"Here," he said, "pull 'em off for me. They're so damnably sopped."

He held up his leg, and the convict pulled off the wet fishing-
stockings with some technical skill.

He drew them on over his own stockinged legs, and the fisherman
kicked the brogues towards him. In exchange the convict handed him
his own shoes.

"Am I to wear these?" the fisherman asked, with something in his
voice that might have been amusement.

"Yes; they're a little out of shape, I'm afraid. The Queen is no
judge of a shoe."