Thrown into a cell, where I found my comrades already housed, I had ample time to meditate upon the events of the last hour or two. I had been in many a scrape before, but this was the first time I had ever been on the hither side of prison walls, and now that the excitement had passed, I fairly recoiled at the disgrace of it.
My head ached, my feet were lacerated, I was dirty, blood-stained, and nearly naked. I looked around the filthy place, at the no less filthy Chilanos—our fellow-prisoners, who jeered at us derisively—and groaned aloud.
Though feeling my position keenly, I was by no means sorry for what I had done. I had acted, I told myself, just as any other Englishman would under the circumstances. I had been goaded into it, and the blame lay with Don Carlos and his rascally compatriot.
Arraigned before the judge the next day we presented a bedraggled appearance. Through an interpreter the charge was explained to us, evidence was heard, and the case decided. After we had been removed we found that the prison-sheet contained the following notice: "Alberto Crafto, José Essien, Juan Andres, Carlos Parko, Tomaso Mahan, twenty-five days' imprisonment each." The Frenchmen were not in it—they had apparently got clear away to the hills.
"I BROUGHT HIM TO THE GROUND WITH A 'CUT ONE,' DELIVERED WITH ALL THE FORCE I POSSESSED."
Prison life was not so bad, save for the taint and the vile companions amongst whom we were thrown. We were fairly well treated and fed, had plenty of outdoor recreation, and labour of any description was never asked of one.
This last was the thing which preyed upon me. I like being busy at any time, besides, the enforced idleness left too much time for unwholesome thinking.
At length I asked permission to work. "What can you do?" questioned the Commandante. "Do? Anything!" I told him. "Mend a roof, make a chair, do joiner work, paint——"
"Paint, ah!" he cried—some idea had evidently struck him. "Well, I will think of it."