“I’ll try the winders.”
“But if the winders is tight barred, wot then?”
“Why, then, I’ll bust ’em, or I’ll bust myself, that’s all.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Ben.
Again there was a prolonged silence, during which the friends moodily meditated on the dark prospects before them.
“If we could only have bin killed in action,” said Bill, “that would have been some comfort.”
“Not so sure o’ that, messmate,” said Ben. “There’s no sayin’ wot may turn up. P’r’aps the war will end soon, an’ that’s not onlikely, for we’ve whipped the Mounseers on sea, an’ it won’t be difficult for our lobsters to lick ’em on land. P’r’aps there’ll be an exchange of prisoners, an’ we may have a chance of another brush with them one o’ these days. If the wust comes to the wust, we can try to break out o’ jail and run a muck for our lives. Never say die is my motto.”
Bill Bowls did not assent to these sentiments in words, but he clenched his fettered hands, set his teeth together, and gave his comrade a look which assured him that whatever might be attempted he would act a vigorous part.
A few days later the transport entered a harbour, and a guard came on board to take charge of the prisoners, of whom there were about twenty. As they were being led to the jail of the town, Bill whispered to his comrade—
“Look out sharp as ye go along, Ben, an’ keep as close to me as ye can.”