“Well, it’s all ours,” Stephen declared. “We’ve broken a band-box full of old tools and things, and destroyed all our jack-knives. We have used heaps of nails, and—and—all sorts of things. Henry, we have suffered!”
Really, in heroism and fortitude these boys equalled the ancient Spartans; for they would have encountered any danger, undergone any hardship, to secure the success of their plot. Yes, they toiled as if they had a better cause in view.
The “Imposter” was next unearthed. It excited Henry’s liveliest admiration; and Steve said, as they deposited it in its hiding-place, “we’ll make it hot for you to-night, you old Atrocious Scoundrel, you!”
“Why, this is Mr. Atrocious Scoundrel, isn’t he, boys?” Henry said, beaming with delight.
“Of course he is,” the rest answered promptly.
But hold! Did not the letter state that this personage was away from home, that is from the prison? Surely, here was an oversight! Here was a quicksand! In good truth, the plot was too much for those boys to manage, and it had turned their brain.
It had turned their brain. Mark that, gentle reader, for it may help you to understand what is to follow shortly.
A guilty look was on Jim’s face whilst the boys spoke thus, but it escaped their notice. No, they did not suspect that there was treachery in the camp—least of all, that Jim was the traitor.
Then Henry donned his various “disguises,” and the little band of little plotters set out for the village. But Henry had not taken fifteen steps when he stumbled headlong over a submerged wheel-barrow (submerged in dense grass and rank weeds, gentle reader) and fell heavily.