ler
was deserving of small sympathy.

CHAPTER XIX

_In Which Archie Armstrong Goes Deeper In and Thinks He
Has Got Beyond His Depth. Bill o' Burnt Bay Takes
Deschamps By the Throat and the Issue Is Doubtful For a
Time_

That afternoon, after a short conversation with Josiah Cove, who had
thus far managed to keep out of trouble, Archie Armstrong spent a
brief time on the _Heavenly Home_ to attend to the health and comfort
of the watchman, who was in no bad way. Perhaps, after all, Archie
thought--if Deschamps' headache would only cause the removal of Bill
o' Burnt Bay to the dilapidated cell on the ground floor--the
_Heavenly Home_ might yet be sailed in triumph to Ruddy Cove. He
strutted the deck, when necessary, with as much of the insolence of a
civic official as he could command, and no man came near to question
his right. When the watchman's friends came from the _Voyageur_ he
drove them away in excellent French. They went meekly and with
apologies for having disturbed him.

"So far, well enough," thought Archie, as he rowed ashore, glad to be
off the schooner.

It was after dark when, by appointment, the lad met Josiah. Josiah had
provided himself with a crowbar and a short length of line, which he
said would be sure to come useful, for he had always found it so. Then
the two set off for the jail together, and there arrived some time
after the drums had warned all good people to be within doors.

"What's that?" said Josiah of a sudden.

It was a hoarse, melancholy croak proceeding from the other side of
the wall. The skipper's cell had been changed, as Archie had hoped,
and the skipper himself was doing his duty to the bitter end. The
street was deserted. They acted quickly. Josiah gave Archie a leg. He
threw his jacket over the broken glass and mounted the wall. Josiah
made off at once; it was his duty to have the skiff in readiness.
Archie dropped into the garden.

"Is that you, b'y?" whispered Skipper Bill.

Again Archie once more found it impossible to take the adventure
seriously. He began to laugh. It was far too much like the romances
he had read to be real. It was play, it seemed--just like a game of
smugglers and pirates, played on a summer's afternoon.

"Is it you, Archie?" the skipper whispered again.

Archie chuckled aloud.

"Is the wind in the west?" the skipper asked.

"Ay," Archie replied; "and blowing a smart sailing breeze."

"Haste, then, lad!" said the