Billy Topsail & Company: A Story for Boys

Archie touched the surgeon on the shoulder. “Is he dead?” the boy asked, in French, his voice trembling.

“No, monsieur; he is alive.”

“Will he live?”

“To be sure, monsieur!”

“Is there any doubt about it?” asked Archie.

“Doubt?” exclaimed the surgeon. “With my skill, monsieur? It is impossible–he cannot die! He will be restored in three days. I–I– I will accomplish it!”

“Thank God for that!” thought Archie.

The boy went gravely home to bed; and as he lay down the adventure seemed less romantic than it had.

CHAPTER XVIII

In Which Archie Inspects an Opera Bouffe Dungeon Jail, Where He Makes the Acquaintance of Dust, Dry Rot and Deschamps. In Which, Also, Skipper Bill o’ Burnt Bay Is Advised to Howl Until His Throat Cracks

In the morning Archie went as a tourist to the jail where Bill o’ Burnt Bay was confined. The wind was blowing fresh from the west and promised to hold true for the day. It was a fair, strong wind for the outward bound craft; but Archie Armstrong had no longer any interest in the wind or in the Heavenly Home. He was interested in captives and cells. To his astonishment he found that the Saint Pierre jail had been designed chiefly with the idea of impressing the beholder, and was builded long, long ago.

It was a low-walled structure situate in a quiet quarter of the town. The outer walls were exceeding thick. One might work with a pick and shovel for a week and never tunnel them.

“But,” thought Archie, “why tunnel them when it is possible to leap over them?”

They were jagged on top and strewn with bits of broken bottle imbedded in the mortar.

“But,” thought Archie, “why cut one’s hands when it is so easy to throw a jacket over the glass and save the pain?”

The walls apparently served no good purpose except to frighten the populace with their frowns.

As big Deschamps, the jailer, led Archie through the musty corridors and cells the boy perceived that the old building had long ago gone to wrack. It was a place of rust and dust and dry rot, of crumbling masonry, of rotted casements, of rust-eaten bars, of creaking hinges and broken locks. He had the impression that a strong man could break in the doors with his fist and tumble the walls about his ears with a push.

“This way, monsieur,” said Deschamps, at last. “Come! I will show you the pig of a Newfoundlander who half killed a gendarme. He is a terrible fellow.”

He had Skipper Bill safe enough–thrown into a foul-aired, windowless cell with an iron-bound door, from which there was no escape. To release him was impossible, whatever the condition of the jail in other parts. Archie had hoped to find a way; but when he saw the cell in which Skipper Bill was confined he gave up all idea of a rescue. And at that moment the skipper came to the narrow grating in the door. He scowled at the jailer and looked the boy over blankly.

“Pah!” exclaimed Deschamps, screwing his face into a look of disgust.

“You wait ’til I cotches you!” the skipper growled.

“What does the pig say, monsieur?” Deschamps asked.

“He has not yet repented,” Archie replied, evasively.

“Pah!” said Deschamps again. “Come, monsieur; we shall continue the inspection.”

Archie was taken to the furthermost cell of the corridor. It was isolated from that part of the building where the jailer had his living quarters, and it was a light, roomy place on the ground floor. The window bars were rusted thin and the masonry in which they were sunk was falling away. It seemed to Archie that he himself could wrench the bars away with his hands; but he found that he could not when he tried them. He looked out; and what he saw made him regret that Skipper Bill had not been confined in that particular cell.

“This cell, monsieur,” said Deschamps, importantly, “is where I confine the drunken Newfoundland sailors when–”

Archie looked up with interest.

“When they make a great noise, monsieur,” Deschamps concluded. “I have the headache,” he explained. “So bad and so often I have the headache, monsieur. I cannot bear the great noise they make. It is fearful. So I put them here, and I go to sleep, and they do not trouble me at all.”

“Is monsieur in earnest?” Archie asked.

Deschamps was flattered by this form of address from a young gentleman. “It is true,” he replied. “Compelled. That is the word. I am compelled to confine them here.”

“Let us return to the Newfoundlander,” said Archie.

“He is a pig,” Deschamps agreed, “and well worth looking at.”

When they came to the door of Skipper Bill’s cell, Archie was endeavouring to evolve a plan for having a word with him without exciting Deschamps’ suspicion. The jailer saved him the trouble.

“Monsieur is an American,” said Deschamps. “Will he not tell the pig of a Newfoundlander that he shall have no breakfast?”

“Skipper Bill,” said Archie, in English, “when I leave here you howl until your throat cracks.”

Bill o’ Burnt Bay nodded. “How’s the wind?” he asked.

“What does the pig of a Newfoundlander say?” Deschamps inquired.

“It is of no importance,” Archie replied.

When Archie had inspected the guillotine in the garret, which Deschamps exhibited to every visitor with great pride, the jailer led him to the open air.

“Do the prisoners never escape?” Archie asked.

“Escape!” Deschamps cried, with reproach and indignation. “Monsieur, how could you suggest it? Escape! From me–from me, monsieur!” He struck his breast and extended his arms. “Ah, no–they could not! My bravery, monsieur–my strength–all the world knows of them. I am famous, monsieur. Deschamps, the wrestler! Escape! From me! Ah, no–it is impossible!”

When Archie had more closely observed his gigantic form, his broad, muscular chest, his mighty arms and thick neck, his large, lowering face–when he had observed all this he fancied that a man might as well wrestle with a grizzly as oppose him, for it would come to the same thing in the end.

“You are a strong man,” Archie admitted.

“Thanks–thanks–monsieur!” the delighted Deschamps responded.

At that moment, a long, dismal howl broke the quiet. It was repeated even more excruciatingly.

“The pig of a Newfoundlander!” groaned Deschamps. “My head! It is fearful. He will give me the headache.”

Archie departed. He was angry with Deschamps for having called Newfoundlanders pigs. After all, he determined, angrily, the jailer 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.