Marcus Clarke

“ Man, do you believe in a God?" "No," said Dawes, "not here. Hold up, my lad. If you fall, we must fall over you, and then you're done for."
He had hardly uttered the words, when the boy flung himself beneath the log. In another instant the train would have been scrambling over his crushed body, had not Gabbett stretched out an iron hand, and plucked the would-be suicide from death. ”

“ Troke——"
"Stow your gaff," says Troke, with another oath, and impatiently striking the lad with his thong—"I can't argue here all night. Get in." So Kirkland, aged twenty-two, and the son of Methodist parents, went in.
Rufus Dawes, among whose sinister memories this yard was numbered, sighed. So fierce was the glamour of the place, however, that when locked into his cell, he felt ashamed for that sigh, and strove to erase the memory of it. "What is he more than anybody else?" said the wretched man to himself, as he hugged his misery close. ”

“ His flogging wouldn't have killed a flea."
"You can't get 'em to warm one another, your honour," says Troke. "They won't do it."
"Oh, yes, they will, though," says Burgess, "or I'll know the reason why. I won't have my men knocked up with flogging these rascals. If the scourger won't do his duty, tie him up, and give him five-and-twenty for himself. I'll be down in the morning myself if I can."
"Very good, your honour," says Troke.
Kirkland was put into a separate cell that night; and Troke, by way of assuring him a good night's rest, told him that he was to have "fifty" in the morning. ”