In its slow but steady revolution, the wheel of fortune had now apparently² brought Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter to the lowest possible point; and the former of these worthies³ consoled himself with the reflection that, as things could scarcely get worse with them, it was probable they would get better. His friend disputed this point.

 

“It’s all very well,” said Ben, crossing his legs and clasping his hands over his knees, as he swayed himself to and fro, “to talk about havin’ come to the wust; but we’ve not got to that p’int by a long way. Why, suppose that, instead o’ bein’ here, sound in wind and limb, though summat unfort’nate in regard to the matter o’ liberty,—suppose, I say, that we wos lyin’ in hospital with our right legs an’ mayhap our left arms took off with a round shot.”

 

“Oh, if you go for to supposin’,” said Bill, “you may suppose anything. Why not suppose at once that we was lyin’ in hospital with both legs and arms took off by round shot, an’ both eyes put out with canister, an’ our heads an’ trunks carried away by grape-shot?”

 

“I didn’t suppose that,” said Ben quietly, “because that would be the best instead o’ the wust state we could come to, seein’ that we’d know an’ care nothin’ about it. Hows’ever, here we are, low enough, an’ havin’ made an assault on the turnkey, it’s not likely we’ll get much favour at the hands of the Mounseers; so it comes to this, that we must set our brains to steep, an’ see if we can’t hit upon some dodge⁴ or other to escape.”

 

“That’s what we must do,” assented⁵ Bill Bowls, knitting his brows, and gazing abstractedly at the blank wall opposite. “To git out o’ this here stone jug⁶ is what I’ve set my heart on, so the sooner we set about it the better.”

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