On the night after the battle, Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter were sent on board a French transport ship.
As they sat beside each other, in irons, and securely lodged under hatches, these stout men of war lamented their hard fate thus—
“I say, Bill, this is wot I calls a fix!”
“That’s so, Ben—a bad fix.”
There was silence for a few minutes, then Ben resumed—
“Now, d’ye see, this here war may go on for ever so long—years it may be—an’ here we are on our way to a French prison, where we’ll have the pleasure, mayhap, of spendin’ our youth in twirlin’ our thumbs or bangin’ our heads agin the bars of our cage.”
“There ain’t a prison in France as’ll hold me,” said Bill Bowls resolutely.
“No? how d’ye ’xpect to git out—seein’ that the walls and doors ain’t made o’ butter, nor yet o’ turnips?” inquired Ben.
“I’ll go up the chimbley,” said Bill savagely, for his mind had reverted to Nelly Blyth, and he could not bear to think of prolonged imprisonment.
“But wot if they’ve got no chimbleys?”