_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.