Chapter IX.Diegoleft the cabin very happy in the praise of his cousin and in the fact of the reconciliation that had taken place between them; but there was something still lacking to complete happiness, and that was the good-will of the crew, which he thought he deserved, but which he was not certain he would obtain.He need not have concerned himself about that, however. The crew had seen and admired his courage, and was ready to welcome him with acclamation or with sympathy, whichever seemed the most appropriate. Only Miguel and Juan knew how much he could have divulged; but there had been so many in the secret of the intended attempt on the rudder that it was easily surmised that Diego could have told something harmful to them if he had been willing.“‘THOU ART A TRUE PINZON, AND I AM PROUD OF THEE.’”The fact that he had not been willing, pleased as much as it surprised them, and the dislike for Diego that had been almost general among the crew had been quickly and completely changed to admiration and liking; so that when he made his appearance out of the cabin with the air of being freed from fear of the flogging, they set up a shout of welcome and gathered around him the moment he came down the ladder from the poop-deck. And he, in his pleasure at their good-will, forgot his former nice distinction of honest men and convicts, and gave his bright smiles right and left.“Art spared, boy?” said one old sailor.“Yes, and have his good-will, though I betrayed no one—not I.”“And so it should be,” said another; “for you showed yourself one of his own kind. A brave boy, comrades!”“Ay, ay! and we did him an injustice.”“So we did,” was agreed, “but we’ll make that right.”“But how came he to let you off?” asked a voice that Diego knew for Miguel’s, though the fellow did not show himself inside the group, preferring to skulk on the outer edge.“Why,” answered Diego, a little hotly, “because it was discovered that the fellow who did the trick was as much fool as knave; for the rudder had been fixed to break down ere ever the vessel left port. And I must say it is well that thePintahad so good a captain, or we would all have been at the bottom now. I tellyou all freely and frankly that I like the voyage no better than any of you; but it was a foolish and a knavish trick to do a thing that might have sent us all to feed the fishes. I wager the one who did it was no sailor.”“True,” and “That’s true,” and “He says well!” came from every side of him, and Diego knew he had made no mistake in putting the matter as he had.All this while, of course, the carpenter had been busy at the rudder, and after a time he came up and reported that he had done all that could be done—a matter Martin Alonzo certified to himself by going over the rail and examining the work. When he came on deck again he said to his brother:“Nothing more can be done; but we cannot go far in this plight. Another such gale would make an end of us. I would I could talk with the admiral.”Somehow his words got forward among the sailors, and there were very few, if any, among them that were not content with the prospect of having to turn back. And Diego, if the truth be told, was as pleased as any.It was still too rough for any communication with the admiral, and so there was nothing for it at present but to put on sail and proceed; butthat did not disquiet any but those who were not sailors; for it was well enough understood that Martin Alonzo was only keeping on until he could communicate with the admiral, Christoval Colon.The sailors had fully expected some sort of harangue from Martin Alonzo; but he maintained what seemed to some of them an ominous silence, and gave his whole attention to the navigation of the disabled ship.Once again during the day the rudder broke down; but the sea had moderated so much that it was repaired more easily this time; though it was still understood that nothing permanent could be accomplished without seeking land first.It was not until the next day that the waves had gone down sufficiently to render intercourse between the vessels possible; though thePintahad approached near enough to theSanta Mariato shout across the water the nature of the accident that had disabled the former ship.Martin Alonzo would have gone aboard theSanta Maria, but the admiral thought it better for himself to go to thePinta, and he did so soon after sunrise. The sailors of thePintagreeted his appearance with execrations—muttered, indeed, but deep and heartfelt; and theyhad many disparaging things to say of him, likening him to a madman in looks. But Diego, who had seen him often, could not feel as they did, and thought him one of the noblest and most dignified of men.He retired to the cabin, taking his pilot with him, and followed by Martin Alonzo, Francisco Martin, who was pilot of thePinta, and by Garcia Fernandez. There must have been a serious consultation between them; for they all looked grave when they came out. When the admiral had returned to his vessel, Martin Alonzo had all hands called aft, and they went readily enough; for they were hot to hear what had been decided.Martin Alonzo stood on the poop and waited silently, until all the sailors stood ready to hear him. He looked very stern and determined, and some who were more acute than others augured ill for their hopes of a return.“If I had discovered yesterday,” began Martin Alonzo, in a very uncompromising tone, “who had cut the gearing I would have hanged him to the yard. I had good reasons for not pressing the matter. Now, I will say that any similar attempt in the future will be punished by instant death.“So much for that. The object in playingthat fool’s trick was to force me to turn back. You are all hoping that I will turn back. I shall not. We are heading now for the Canary Islands, where a new vessel will be found to replace this; or, if that cannot be done, this shall be thoroughly repaired and the voyage continued to the end. Or at least until we have gone seven hundred leagues to the westward of Andalusia.”He stopped as if he believed he had said the last possible word on the subject. The men looked uneasily at each other, and it was plain that there was a strong feeling of dissatisfaction among them that must find voice, and it did in the person of a grizzled old sailor, who theretofore had had as little to say as any one. He knuckled his forehead and hitched himself a little forward in the group of his mates.“I’ve sailed more than one voyage with you, Martin Alonzo.”“So you have. Well?”“I never gave trouble?”“Never.”“And don’t intend to now. I shipped of my own free will, or to please you, which comes to the same thing; but I will say I don’t like the voyage—I don’t like it. ’Tisn’t natural. I hoped we were going back, I did, like all theothers here, and I’d like nothing better than to go back. Of course if you say you are going on, that settles it, for I know you; but don’t you think, Martin Alonzo, it would be fairer to let those that don’t want to go get off at the Canaries? I say what I say to be fair all around.”It was the mildest sort of protest, but it was the best the old fellow could do with the eye of Martin Alonzo fixed sternly on him all the time.“No, it wouldn’t be fairer to let them go,” was the answer. “If I did, I could get no others to take their places. Besides, they are a parcel of children who will thank me some day for having made their fortunes in spite of them. Why, men, we are going to find a country where the houses are roofed with plates of gold and silver. Doesn’t that tempt ye? eh?”“We’re going to perdition,” interrupted a surly voice.“Bah!” said Martin Alonzo, flashing his eye over the men to find the owner of the voice, but not succeeding. “Perdition! Do you think I would like that any better than you? Have I not as much—more to lose?”“Life is life to one as to another,” said a voice.“A coward’s life is worth nothing,” said MartinAlonzo, scornfully. “But there, enough has been said. We go the voyage. To your work.”He was so sharp and peremptory that it was a marvel to Diego that he was not hated by the men; but it was not so, indeed. However much they might dislike the voyage, and there was no doubt on that score, they greatly admired their masterful captain. A few there might have been who did not, perhaps, but they were hushed into silence at the first complaint against him. It was Christoval Colon who had to bear the odium of the forced voyage.They were two days in coming in sight of the islands, and a glad sight it was to them all, even though they knew they would be obliged to put it behind them again. During those two days, and in fact ever since his reconciliation with his cousin, Diego had studiously avoided Juan Cacheco; for as he had no friendly word to say to him, he preferred not to say any. He felt bitter still whenever he reflected that Juan and Miguel would have let him be flogged.But Juan was all the while anxious for a word of explanation with Diego, and continued to seek it even when he saw that Diego avoided him. He could have forced a conversation at any time; but what he had to say needed privacy, and that Diego would not give to him. The approachto land gave Juan the opportunity he had sought, however; for Diego stood alone, gazing abstractedly at the towering peak of Teneriffe. Juan stole up to him, and there was something wistful in his tone as he said:“I am glad you were not flogged that day.”Diego turned with angry start, and said, quickly:“No thanks to you that I was not.”“I could not—” began Juan, eager to justify himself, when Diego broke in cuttingly:“Oh, I know a flogging would be nothing to you. I suppose you have been used to it.”This reference to his prison life made the blood rush in a red tide into the boy’s face. He tried to speak, but could not find the words readily, and, while he was struggling, Diego said, bitterly:“I owed you my life that night, but you owe me yours for keeping silence. If I had told, you would have been hanged up there,” pointing to the yard; “so we are quits. I owe you nothing and you owe me nothing; and I hope some day to show you what an honest boy can do to a rogue.”Juan answered never a word, but seemed as if he were choking as he turned and walked slowly away.“IF I HAD TOLD, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN HANGED UP THERE.”
Chapter IX.Diegoleft the cabin very happy in the praise of his cousin and in the fact of the reconciliation that had taken place between them; but there was something still lacking to complete happiness, and that was the good-will of the crew, which he thought he deserved, but which he was not certain he would obtain.He need not have concerned himself about that, however. The crew had seen and admired his courage, and was ready to welcome him with acclamation or with sympathy, whichever seemed the most appropriate. Only Miguel and Juan knew how much he could have divulged; but there had been so many in the secret of the intended attempt on the rudder that it was easily surmised that Diego could have told something harmful to them if he had been willing.“‘THOU ART A TRUE PINZON, AND I AM PROUD OF THEE.’”The fact that he had not been willing, pleased as much as it surprised them, and the dislike for Diego that had been almost general among the crew had been quickly and completely changed to admiration and liking; so that when he made his appearance out of the cabin with the air of being freed from fear of the flogging, they set up a shout of welcome and gathered around him the moment he came down the ladder from the poop-deck. And he, in his pleasure at their good-will, forgot his former nice distinction of honest men and convicts, and gave his bright smiles right and left.“Art spared, boy?” said one old sailor.“Yes, and have his good-will, though I betrayed no one—not I.”“And so it should be,” said another; “for you showed yourself one of his own kind. A brave boy, comrades!”“Ay, ay! and we did him an injustice.”“So we did,” was agreed, “but we’ll make that right.”“But how came he to let you off?” asked a voice that Diego knew for Miguel’s, though the fellow did not show himself inside the group, preferring to skulk on the outer edge.“Why,” answered Diego, a little hotly, “because it was discovered that the fellow who did the trick was as much fool as knave; for the rudder had been fixed to break down ere ever the vessel left port. And I must say it is well that thePintahad so good a captain, or we would all have been at the bottom now. I tellyou all freely and frankly that I like the voyage no better than any of you; but it was a foolish and a knavish trick to do a thing that might have sent us all to feed the fishes. I wager the one who did it was no sailor.”“True,” and “That’s true,” and “He says well!” came from every side of him, and Diego knew he had made no mistake in putting the matter as he had.All this while, of course, the carpenter had been busy at the rudder, and after a time he came up and reported that he had done all that could be done—a matter Martin Alonzo certified to himself by going over the rail and examining the work. When he came on deck again he said to his brother:“Nothing more can be done; but we cannot go far in this plight. Another such gale would make an end of us. I would I could talk with the admiral.”Somehow his words got forward among the sailors, and there were very few, if any, among them that were not content with the prospect of having to turn back. And Diego, if the truth be told, was as pleased as any.It was still too rough for any communication with the admiral, and so there was nothing for it at present but to put on sail and proceed; butthat did not disquiet any but those who were not sailors; for it was well enough understood that Martin Alonzo was only keeping on until he could communicate with the admiral, Christoval Colon.The sailors had fully expected some sort of harangue from Martin Alonzo; but he maintained what seemed to some of them an ominous silence, and gave his whole attention to the navigation of the disabled ship.Once again during the day the rudder broke down; but the sea had moderated so much that it was repaired more easily this time; though it was still understood that nothing permanent could be accomplished without seeking land first.It was not until the next day that the waves had gone down sufficiently to render intercourse between the vessels possible; though thePintahad approached near enough to theSanta Mariato shout across the water the nature of the accident that had disabled the former ship.Martin Alonzo would have gone aboard theSanta Maria, but the admiral thought it better for himself to go to thePinta, and he did so soon after sunrise. The sailors of thePintagreeted his appearance with execrations—muttered, indeed, but deep and heartfelt; and theyhad many disparaging things to say of him, likening him to a madman in looks. But Diego, who had seen him often, could not feel as they did, and thought him one of the noblest and most dignified of men.He retired to the cabin, taking his pilot with him, and followed by Martin Alonzo, Francisco Martin, who was pilot of thePinta, and by Garcia Fernandez. There must have been a serious consultation between them; for they all looked grave when they came out. When the admiral had returned to his vessel, Martin Alonzo had all hands called aft, and they went readily enough; for they were hot to hear what had been decided.Martin Alonzo stood on the poop and waited silently, until all the sailors stood ready to hear him. He looked very stern and determined, and some who were more acute than others augured ill for their hopes of a return.“If I had discovered yesterday,” began Martin Alonzo, in a very uncompromising tone, “who had cut the gearing I would have hanged him to the yard. I had good reasons for not pressing the matter. Now, I will say that any similar attempt in the future will be punished by instant death.“So much for that. The object in playingthat fool’s trick was to force me to turn back. You are all hoping that I will turn back. I shall not. We are heading now for the Canary Islands, where a new vessel will be found to replace this; or, if that cannot be done, this shall be thoroughly repaired and the voyage continued to the end. Or at least until we have gone seven hundred leagues to the westward of Andalusia.”He stopped as if he believed he had said the last possible word on the subject. The men looked uneasily at each other, and it was plain that there was a strong feeling of dissatisfaction among them that must find voice, and it did in the person of a grizzled old sailor, who theretofore had had as little to say as any one. He knuckled his forehead and hitched himself a little forward in the group of his mates.“I’ve sailed more than one voyage with you, Martin Alonzo.”“So you have. Well?”“I never gave trouble?”“Never.”“And don’t intend to now. I shipped of my own free will, or to please you, which comes to the same thing; but I will say I don’t like the voyage—I don’t like it. ’Tisn’t natural. I hoped we were going back, I did, like all theothers here, and I’d like nothing better than to go back. Of course if you say you are going on, that settles it, for I know you; but don’t you think, Martin Alonzo, it would be fairer to let those that don’t want to go get off at the Canaries? I say what I say to be fair all around.”It was the mildest sort of protest, but it was the best the old fellow could do with the eye of Martin Alonzo fixed sternly on him all the time.“No, it wouldn’t be fairer to let them go,” was the answer. “If I did, I could get no others to take their places. Besides, they are a parcel of children who will thank me some day for having made their fortunes in spite of them. Why, men, we are going to find a country where the houses are roofed with plates of gold and silver. Doesn’t that tempt ye? eh?”“We’re going to perdition,” interrupted a surly voice.“Bah!” said Martin Alonzo, flashing his eye over the men to find the owner of the voice, but not succeeding. “Perdition! Do you think I would like that any better than you? Have I not as much—more to lose?”“Life is life to one as to another,” said a voice.“A coward’s life is worth nothing,” said MartinAlonzo, scornfully. “But there, enough has been said. We go the voyage. To your work.”He was so sharp and peremptory that it was a marvel to Diego that he was not hated by the men; but it was not so, indeed. However much they might dislike the voyage, and there was no doubt on that score, they greatly admired their masterful captain. A few there might have been who did not, perhaps, but they were hushed into silence at the first complaint against him. It was Christoval Colon who had to bear the odium of the forced voyage.They were two days in coming in sight of the islands, and a glad sight it was to them all, even though they knew they would be obliged to put it behind them again. During those two days, and in fact ever since his reconciliation with his cousin, Diego had studiously avoided Juan Cacheco; for as he had no friendly word to say to him, he preferred not to say any. He felt bitter still whenever he reflected that Juan and Miguel would have let him be flogged.But Juan was all the while anxious for a word of explanation with Diego, and continued to seek it even when he saw that Diego avoided him. He could have forced a conversation at any time; but what he had to say needed privacy, and that Diego would not give to him. The approachto land gave Juan the opportunity he had sought, however; for Diego stood alone, gazing abstractedly at the towering peak of Teneriffe. Juan stole up to him, and there was something wistful in his tone as he said:“I am glad you were not flogged that day.”Diego turned with angry start, and said, quickly:“No thanks to you that I was not.”“I could not—” began Juan, eager to justify himself, when Diego broke in cuttingly:“Oh, I know a flogging would be nothing to you. I suppose you have been used to it.”This reference to his prison life made the blood rush in a red tide into the boy’s face. He tried to speak, but could not find the words readily, and, while he was struggling, Diego said, bitterly:“I owed you my life that night, but you owe me yours for keeping silence. If I had told, you would have been hanged up there,” pointing to the yard; “so we are quits. I owe you nothing and you owe me nothing; and I hope some day to show you what an honest boy can do to a rogue.”Juan answered never a word, but seemed as if he were choking as he turned and walked slowly away.“IF I HAD TOLD, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN HANGED UP THERE.”
Diegoleft the cabin very happy in the praise of his cousin and in the fact of the reconciliation that had taken place between them; but there was something still lacking to complete happiness, and that was the good-will of the crew, which he thought he deserved, but which he was not certain he would obtain.
He need not have concerned himself about that, however. The crew had seen and admired his courage, and was ready to welcome him with acclamation or with sympathy, whichever seemed the most appropriate. Only Miguel and Juan knew how much he could have divulged; but there had been so many in the secret of the intended attempt on the rudder that it was easily surmised that Diego could have told something harmful to them if he had been willing.
“‘THOU ART A TRUE PINZON, AND I AM PROUD OF THEE.’”
“‘THOU ART A TRUE PINZON, AND I AM PROUD OF THEE.’”
“‘THOU ART A TRUE PINZON, AND I AM PROUD OF THEE.’”
The fact that he had not been willing, pleased as much as it surprised them, and the dislike for Diego that had been almost general among the crew had been quickly and completely changed to admiration and liking; so that when he made his appearance out of the cabin with the air of being freed from fear of the flogging, they set up a shout of welcome and gathered around him the moment he came down the ladder from the poop-deck. And he, in his pleasure at their good-will, forgot his former nice distinction of honest men and convicts, and gave his bright smiles right and left.
“Art spared, boy?” said one old sailor.
“Yes, and have his good-will, though I betrayed no one—not I.”
“And so it should be,” said another; “for you showed yourself one of his own kind. A brave boy, comrades!”
“Ay, ay! and we did him an injustice.”
“So we did,” was agreed, “but we’ll make that right.”
“But how came he to let you off?” asked a voice that Diego knew for Miguel’s, though the fellow did not show himself inside the group, preferring to skulk on the outer edge.
“Why,” answered Diego, a little hotly, “because it was discovered that the fellow who did the trick was as much fool as knave; for the rudder had been fixed to break down ere ever the vessel left port. And I must say it is well that thePintahad so good a captain, or we would all have been at the bottom now. I tellyou all freely and frankly that I like the voyage no better than any of you; but it was a foolish and a knavish trick to do a thing that might have sent us all to feed the fishes. I wager the one who did it was no sailor.”
“True,” and “That’s true,” and “He says well!” came from every side of him, and Diego knew he had made no mistake in putting the matter as he had.
All this while, of course, the carpenter had been busy at the rudder, and after a time he came up and reported that he had done all that could be done—a matter Martin Alonzo certified to himself by going over the rail and examining the work. When he came on deck again he said to his brother:
“Nothing more can be done; but we cannot go far in this plight. Another such gale would make an end of us. I would I could talk with the admiral.”
Somehow his words got forward among the sailors, and there were very few, if any, among them that were not content with the prospect of having to turn back. And Diego, if the truth be told, was as pleased as any.
It was still too rough for any communication with the admiral, and so there was nothing for it at present but to put on sail and proceed; butthat did not disquiet any but those who were not sailors; for it was well enough understood that Martin Alonzo was only keeping on until he could communicate with the admiral, Christoval Colon.
The sailors had fully expected some sort of harangue from Martin Alonzo; but he maintained what seemed to some of them an ominous silence, and gave his whole attention to the navigation of the disabled ship.
Once again during the day the rudder broke down; but the sea had moderated so much that it was repaired more easily this time; though it was still understood that nothing permanent could be accomplished without seeking land first.
It was not until the next day that the waves had gone down sufficiently to render intercourse between the vessels possible; though thePintahad approached near enough to theSanta Mariato shout across the water the nature of the accident that had disabled the former ship.
Martin Alonzo would have gone aboard theSanta Maria, but the admiral thought it better for himself to go to thePinta, and he did so soon after sunrise. The sailors of thePintagreeted his appearance with execrations—muttered, indeed, but deep and heartfelt; and theyhad many disparaging things to say of him, likening him to a madman in looks. But Diego, who had seen him often, could not feel as they did, and thought him one of the noblest and most dignified of men.
He retired to the cabin, taking his pilot with him, and followed by Martin Alonzo, Francisco Martin, who was pilot of thePinta, and by Garcia Fernandez. There must have been a serious consultation between them; for they all looked grave when they came out. When the admiral had returned to his vessel, Martin Alonzo had all hands called aft, and they went readily enough; for they were hot to hear what had been decided.
Martin Alonzo stood on the poop and waited silently, until all the sailors stood ready to hear him. He looked very stern and determined, and some who were more acute than others augured ill for their hopes of a return.
“If I had discovered yesterday,” began Martin Alonzo, in a very uncompromising tone, “who had cut the gearing I would have hanged him to the yard. I had good reasons for not pressing the matter. Now, I will say that any similar attempt in the future will be punished by instant death.
“So much for that. The object in playingthat fool’s trick was to force me to turn back. You are all hoping that I will turn back. I shall not. We are heading now for the Canary Islands, where a new vessel will be found to replace this; or, if that cannot be done, this shall be thoroughly repaired and the voyage continued to the end. Or at least until we have gone seven hundred leagues to the westward of Andalusia.”
He stopped as if he believed he had said the last possible word on the subject. The men looked uneasily at each other, and it was plain that there was a strong feeling of dissatisfaction among them that must find voice, and it did in the person of a grizzled old sailor, who theretofore had had as little to say as any one. He knuckled his forehead and hitched himself a little forward in the group of his mates.
“I’ve sailed more than one voyage with you, Martin Alonzo.”
“So you have. Well?”
“I never gave trouble?”
“Never.”
“And don’t intend to now. I shipped of my own free will, or to please you, which comes to the same thing; but I will say I don’t like the voyage—I don’t like it. ’Tisn’t natural. I hoped we were going back, I did, like all theothers here, and I’d like nothing better than to go back. Of course if you say you are going on, that settles it, for I know you; but don’t you think, Martin Alonzo, it would be fairer to let those that don’t want to go get off at the Canaries? I say what I say to be fair all around.”
It was the mildest sort of protest, but it was the best the old fellow could do with the eye of Martin Alonzo fixed sternly on him all the time.
“No, it wouldn’t be fairer to let them go,” was the answer. “If I did, I could get no others to take their places. Besides, they are a parcel of children who will thank me some day for having made their fortunes in spite of them. Why, men, we are going to find a country where the houses are roofed with plates of gold and silver. Doesn’t that tempt ye? eh?”
“We’re going to perdition,” interrupted a surly voice.
“Bah!” said Martin Alonzo, flashing his eye over the men to find the owner of the voice, but not succeeding. “Perdition! Do you think I would like that any better than you? Have I not as much—more to lose?”
“Life is life to one as to another,” said a voice.
“A coward’s life is worth nothing,” said MartinAlonzo, scornfully. “But there, enough has been said. We go the voyage. To your work.”
He was so sharp and peremptory that it was a marvel to Diego that he was not hated by the men; but it was not so, indeed. However much they might dislike the voyage, and there was no doubt on that score, they greatly admired their masterful captain. A few there might have been who did not, perhaps, but they were hushed into silence at the first complaint against him. It was Christoval Colon who had to bear the odium of the forced voyage.
They were two days in coming in sight of the islands, and a glad sight it was to them all, even though they knew they would be obliged to put it behind them again. During those two days, and in fact ever since his reconciliation with his cousin, Diego had studiously avoided Juan Cacheco; for as he had no friendly word to say to him, he preferred not to say any. He felt bitter still whenever he reflected that Juan and Miguel would have let him be flogged.
But Juan was all the while anxious for a word of explanation with Diego, and continued to seek it even when he saw that Diego avoided him. He could have forced a conversation at any time; but what he had to say needed privacy, and that Diego would not give to him. The approachto land gave Juan the opportunity he had sought, however; for Diego stood alone, gazing abstractedly at the towering peak of Teneriffe. Juan stole up to him, and there was something wistful in his tone as he said:
“I am glad you were not flogged that day.”
Diego turned with angry start, and said, quickly:
“No thanks to you that I was not.”
“I could not—” began Juan, eager to justify himself, when Diego broke in cuttingly:
“Oh, I know a flogging would be nothing to you. I suppose you have been used to it.”
This reference to his prison life made the blood rush in a red tide into the boy’s face. He tried to speak, but could not find the words readily, and, while he was struggling, Diego said, bitterly:
“I owed you my life that night, but you owe me yours for keeping silence. If I had told, you would have been hanged up there,” pointing to the yard; “so we are quits. I owe you nothing and you owe me nothing; and I hope some day to show you what an honest boy can do to a rogue.”
Juan answered never a word, but seemed as if he were choking as he turned and walked slowly away.
“IF I HAD TOLD, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN HANGED UP THERE.”
“IF I HAD TOLD, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN HANGED UP THERE.”
“IF I HAD TOLD, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN HANGED UP THERE.”