be spoilin' a better chance, mayhap."

At that moment the last bolt was withdrawn, and the door swung open,
revealing several files of soldiers with muskets, and bayonets fixed, in
the passage. This sight decided the question of a rush!

Four of the soldiers entered with the turnkey. The latter, going up to
Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter, said to them in broken English:--

"You follows de soldat."

Much surprised, but in silence, they obeyed the command.

As they were going out, one of their comrades said, "Good-bye, mates:
it's plain they've taken ye for admirals on account o' yer size!"

"Niver a taste," said the Irishman before mentioned, "'tis bein' led,
they are, to exekooshion--"

The remainder of this consolatory suggestion was cut off by the shutting
of the door.

After traversing several passages, the turnkey stopped before a small
door studded with iron nails, and, selecting one of his huge keys,
opened it, while the soldiers ranged up on either side.

The turnkey, who was a tall, powerful man, stepped back, and, looking at
Bill, pointed to the cell with his finger, as much as to say, "Go in."

Bill looked at him and at the soldiers for a moment, clenched his fists,
and drew his breath short, but as one of the guard quietly brought his
musket to the charge, he heaved a sigh, bent his head, and, passing
under the low doorway, entered the cell.

"Are we to stop long here, Mister Turnkey?" asked Ben, as he was about
to follow.

The man vouchsafed no reply, but again pointed to the cell.

"I've always heered ye wos a purlite nation," said Ben, as he followed
his messmate; "but there's room for improvement."

The door was shut, and the two friends stood for a few minutes in the
centre of their cell, gazing in silence around the blank walls.

The appearance of their prison was undoubtedly depressing, for there was
nothing whatever in it to arrest the eye, except a wooden bench in one
corner, and the small grated window which was situated near the top of
one of the walls.

"What d'ye think o' this?" asked Ben, after some time, sitting down on
the bench.

"I think I won't be able to stand it," said Bill, flinging himself
recklessly down beside his friend, and thrusting his hands deep into his
trouser pockets.

"Don't take on so bad, messmate," said Ben, in a reproving tone.
"Gittin' sulky with fate ain't no manner o' use. As our messmate
Flinders used to say, `Be aisy, an' if ye can't be aisy, be