Marcus Clarke

“ Frere laughed. The brutal indifference of the rejoinder suited his humour, and, with a glance at Vickers, he took a small piece of cavendish from the pocket of his pea-jacket, and gave it to the recaptured convict. Gabbett snatched it as a cur snatches at a bone, and thrust it whole into his mouth.
"How many mates had he?" asked Maurice, watching the champing jaws as one looks at a strange animal, and asking the question as though a "mate" was something a convict was born with—like a mole, for instance. ”

“ I can't do nothin' wi' 'un."
"Gabbett!"
The intelligent Troke, considerately alive to the wishes of his superior officers, dragged the mass into a sitting posture.
Gabbett—for it was he—passed one great hand over his face, and leaning exactly in the position in which Troke placed him, scowled, bewildered, at his visitors.
"Well, Gabbett," says Vickers, "you've come back again, you see. When will you learn sense, eh? Where are your mates?"
The giant did not reply.
"Do you hear me? Where are your mates?"
"Where are your mates?" repeated Troke.
"Dead," says Gabbett. ”

“ Gabbett, in eloquent silence, held out a bleeding foot.
"We found him on the point, sir," said Troke, jauntily explaining, "and brought him across in the boat. He had a basin of gruel, but he didn't seem hungry."
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you eat your gruel?"
Gabbett curled his great lips.
"I have eaten it. Ain't yer got nuffin' better nor that to flog a man on? Ugh! yer a mean lot! Wot's it to be this time, Major? Fifty?"
And laughing, he rolled down again on the logs.
"A nice specimen!" said Vickers, with a hopeless smile. "What can one do with such a fellow?" ”