“If we could only git hold of a file to cut a bar o’ the winder with, an’ a rope to let ourselves down with, I think we could manage to git over the walls somehow.”
“If we was to tear our jackets, trousers, vests, and shirts into strips, an’ make a rope of ’em, it might be long enough,” suggested Bill.
“That’s so, boy, but as we would be stark naked before we got it finished, I fear the turnkey would suspec’ there wos somethin’ wrong somehow.”
Ben Bolter sighed deeply as he spoke, because at that moment a ray of sunshine shot through the little window, and brought the free fresh air and the broad blue sea vividly to his remembrance. For the first time he experienced a deep sinking of the heart, and he looked at his comrade with an expression of something like despair.
“Cheer up,” said Bill, observing and thoroughly understanding the look. “Never say die, as long as there’s a—shot—in—”
He was too much depressed and listless to finish the sentence.
“I wonder,” resumed Ben, “if the Mounseers treat all their prisoners of war as bad as they treat us.”
“Don’t think they do,” replied Bill. “I’ve no doubt it’s ’cause we sarved ’em as we did when they first put us in quod.”
“Oh, if they would only give us summat to do!” exclaimed Ben, with sudden vehemence.
It seemed as if the poor fellow’s prayer were directly answered, for at that moment the door opened, and the governor, or some other official of the prison, entered the cell.