n----"

"Buy them at a pound apiece," concluded Chivey.

"Right," said Herbert Murray, with a mischievous grin; "forewarned,
forearmed; we hold them now and we'll keep them----"

"Please the pigs," concluded Chivey fervently.

CHAPTER XCVI.

OUR FRIENDS IN DURANCE VILE--A STROKE FOR LIBERTY--THE PRISONERS'
PLOT--MOLE IS PRESCRIBED FOR--A FRIEND IN NEED--HOPES AND
MISGIVINGS--"OLD WET BLANKET."

"It's very odd."

"Very."

"And scarcely polite," suggested Mr. Mole.

"Well, scarcely."

"That makes the fourth letter I have written to him, and he doesn't
even condescend to notice them."

"Very odd."

"Very."

But while all the sufferers by the seeming neglect of the consul were
expressing themselves so freely in the matter, old Sobersides, as Jack
called his comrade, Harry Girdwood, remained silent and meditative.

Jack had great faith in his thoughtful chum.

"A penny for your thoughts, Harry," said he.

"I'll give them for nix," returned Harry Girdwood, gaily.

"Out with it."

"I was wondering whether, while you are all blaming the poor consul, he
has ever received your letters."

"What, the four?"

"Yes."

"Of course."

"I don't see it."

"But, my dear fellow, consider. One may have miscarried--or two--but
hang it! all four can't have gone wrong."

"Of course not," said Mole, with the air of a man who puts a final stop
to all arguments.

"There I beg leave to differ with you all."

"Why?"

"The letters have not reached the consul, perhaps; they may have been
intercepted."

"By whom?" was Jack's natural question.

"Can't say positively; possibly by Murray."

"Is it likely?"

"Is it not?"

"I don't see, unless he bought over the messenger."

"And what is more likely than that?" said Harry. "And if they have
bought over one messenger, it is for good and all, not for a single
letter, but for every scrap of paper you may send out of the prison,
you may depend upon it."

This simple reasoning struck his hearers.

"Upon my life!" exclaimed Jack, "I believe Harry's right. We must
tackle the governor."

"So I think."

"And I too," added Harry Girdwood; "but how?"

"I'll write him a letter."

"Yes; and send it to him by the gaoler," said Harry.

"Yes."

"The gaoler who carried all the other letters? Why, Jack, Jack, what a
thoughtless, rattlebrained chap you are. What on earth is the use of
such a move as that?"

Jack's countenance fell again at this.

"You're