"Now, Babbage," said Jack, when he had finished his story, "we're going to escape, and I'll tell you how."
"Not up the chimbley, sir? I'd squeeze myself as small as I could, but I'm afeard I should stick fast and spoil the whole boiling."
"No, no; you're too fat for the chimney. You'll be left in charge till you hear a hubbub below; then you're to break open the door and make a dash for it at the head of the men."
"Why, I'll obey orders, sir; Ben Babbage always obeys orders; but, begging your pardon, it beats me how I'm to break the door open with a poker and a chopper—"
"Babbage, if you make any more difficulties you'll never see your brother Sol, for here you'll stay. You shall have other tools by and by. You understand, nothing is to be done until you hear the signal; it will be loud enough, I promise you. I shall wait until the captain's guests have gone. That will probably be late; so there'll be plenty of time for us to make a rope. No, don't speak. I haven't done yet. We'll tear up the coverlets—they're precious thin, but we haven't any better—and twist up a rope long enough to reach from the top of the chimney to the bottom: about fifty feet, I should think. Then I'll take it with me and four or five of the men, Turley for one—
"Begging your pardon, sir—
"What?"
"Begging your pardon, sir,—not Turley, but me."
"Oh, very well! You're too fat for the chimney at present, as you owned yourself, but we could get something off you with the chopper."
Babbage grinned sheepishly, and made no further suggestions.