As Henry did not deign to state how this might be accomplished, we are left to infer that he had an idea of a flying-machine in his mind.
Stephen and Charles wore out the night in wondering what they should do with themselves if sent to prison. The former resolved that he would undermine the prison foundations with his jack-knife, and make his escape to Robinson Crusoe’s island.
“There I shall spend my life,” he sighed heroically, “thinking of Marmaduke. Robinson lived alone twenty-eight years; I’m only sixteen, I shall probably live alone about sixty years, if the cannibals don’t catch me and eat me up.”
Poor dreamer! He was not sufficiently well versed in geography to know that Robinson Crusoe’s island is not now so desirable a place to play the hermit in as it was in the seventeenth century.
George, who was of an inquisitive disposition, finally left his bed, broke into the lumber-room of his ancestral home, and after diligent search, found a bulky tome, which, years before, had been consigned to that dreary region as being more learned than intelligible. This tome was entitled “Every Man his own Lawyer.”
With this prize he returned to his bedroom, muttering, “Now I shall see just what the law can do to us boys, and all about the whole business, and what we ought to do and say.”
After an hour’s careful study of this neglected “Mine of Wealth,” the Sage let it slip out of his hands, and tumbled into bed again, muttering: “Yes, one of us is guilty of the crime of arson. That is very clear. All of us are liable to be sent to prison. That is pretty clear. As I make it out, the sentence ranges between six months and a hundred years. Which will the judge conclude we deserve, six or one hundred? Oh, well, it will be hideous to live in a prison at all, for there will be no books there!”
According to the Sage’s notions, the worst fate that could possibly overtake him would be to be deprived of his books.
“But, O dear,” he pursued, “I should be willing to give up all my books if Marmaduke could be found.”
Morning dawned on the reformed plotters with mocking serenity. There could be no enjoyment for them while such a cloud of mystery hung over their companion’s fate.