going up from
the doomed rickyard. So then he went and woke Alice, and said:

'Suppose the police have got that poor farmer locked up in a noisome
cell, and all the time it's _us_.'

'That's just what _I_ feel,' said Alice.

Then Oswald said, 'Get dressed.'

And when she had, she came out into the road, where Oswald, pale but
resolute, was already pacing with firm steps. And he said:

'Look here, let's go and tell. Let's say you and I made the balloon. The
others can stop out of it if they like.'

'They won't if it's really prison,' said Alice. 'But it would be noble
of us to try it on. Let's----'

But we found we didn't know who to tell.

'It seems so fatal to tell the police,' said Alice; 'there's no getting
out of it afterwards. Besides, he's only Jameson, and he's very stupid.'

The author assures you you do not know what it is like to have a crime
like arsenic on your conscience, and to have gone to the trouble and
expense of making up your mind to confess it, and then not to know who
to.

We passed a wretched day. And all the time the ricks were blazing. All
the people in the village went over with carts and bikes to see the
fire--like going to a fair or a show. In other circumstances we should
have done the same, but now we had no heart for it.

In the evening Oswald went for a walk by himself, and he found his
footsteps turning towards the humble dwelling of the Ancient Mariner who
had helped us in a smuggling adventure once.

The author wishes to speak the truth, so he owns that perhaps Oswald had
some idea that the Ancient Mariner, who knew so much about smugglers and
highwaymen, might be able to think of some way for us to save ourselves
from prison without getting an innocent person put into it. Oswald found
the mariner smoking a black pipe by his cottage door. He winked at
Oswald as usual. Then Oswald said:

'I want to ask your advice; but it's a secret. I know you can keep
secrets.'

When the aged one had agreed to this, Oswald told him all. It was a
great relief.

The mariner listened with deep attention, and when Oswald had quite
done, he said:

'It ain't the stone jug this time mate. That there balloon of yours, I
see it go up--fine and purty 'twas, too.'

'We all saw it go _up_,' said Oswald in despairing accents. 'The
question is, where did it come down?'

'At Burmarsh, sonny,' was the unexpected and unspeakably relieving
reply. 'My sister's husband's niece--it come down and l