With the aid of Ned’s shoulders he clambered up to the window and hung on by the bars.
“I can see the sea, anyway,” he called down.
“Is there any sign of the Beale?” asked the midshipman, with a wild hope for an instant that some chance might have brought her there.
The boatswain’s mate shook his head soberly as he alighted once more on the cell floor.
“No, sir, there ain’t,” he said, “and even if there were it wouldn’t do us any good.”
“Isn’t there a chance of getting out?”
Stanley hit the walls with his mighty fist.
“Hear that?” he asked; “solid as Gibraltar, as the advertisements say. And to make sure we don’t gouge our way out they’ve got three of those tin soldiers marching up and down in front.”
This was the death blow to their last lingering hope of escape. For a time they sat in silence, with bowed heads. Suddenly Stanley straightened up from the bench on which he had been sitting.
“Hark!” he exclaimed.