“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 right, Harry. I go jumping like a bull at a gate as usual. What would you do?”

Harry’s answer was brief and sententious.

“Think.”

“Do so, mate,” returned Jack, hopefully again; “do so.”

“I will.”

He pressed his lips and knit his brows with a burlesque, melodramatic air, and strode up and down, with his forefinger to his forehead.

He stopped suddenly and stamped twice, as a haughty earl might do in a transpontine tragedy when resolving upon his crowning villany, and exclaimed in a voice suggestive of fiend-like triumph

“I have it.”

“Hold it tight, then.”

“One of us must sham ill so as to get the doctor here. Once he’s here, we shall be all right.”

“Hurrah!” cried Jack Harkaway; “that’s the notion. We shall yet defeat the schemes of that incarnate fiend, Murray.”

“That is a capital idea,” said Mr. Mole. “You have suggested quite a new idea.”

“Now stop; the next thing for us to think of is who is to be the sham invalid,” said Jack.

“I would suggest Tinker,” said Harry.

“Or Bogey,” observed Mr. Mole.

“Why?”

“Because it would not be easy to tell whether they looked in delicate health or not.”

“There’s something in that,” said Jack, “but there’s this to say against it.”

“What?”

“They might not be able to keep the game up so well as one of ourselves, so I think

Here Jack paused, whilst Harry and he exchanged a meaning wink unobserved by the old gentleman.

“I think that it ought to be Mr. Mole,” continued our hero.

“Why?”

“Why, sir; can you ask why? You are such a lovely shammer.”

“Come, I say,” began Mr. Mole, scarcely relishing it.

“He’s quite right, sir,” said Harry Girdwood, “you are inimitable as a shammer.”

“I?”

“You can pitch it so strong, Mr. Mole,” said Jack.

“And so natural,” added Harry Girdwood.

“Life-like,” said the two together, in mingled tones of rapt admiration.

Mr. Mole was but human.

Humanity is but frail, and ever open to the voice of flattery.

What could Mole do but yield?

Nothing.

He gave in, and shammed very ill indeed.

Well, the result of this was that the gaoler made his report, and the doctor came.

“De quoi se plaint-il?” demanded the doctor, as he entered the cell.

“What does he say?” asked Mole; “I’m as deaf as an adder.”

“The doctor asks what you complain of?” said Jack, in a very loud voice.

“Oh, any thing he likes,” returned Mole, impatiently.

They were on the point of bursting out laughing at this, when the doctor startled them considerably by saying in broken (but understandable) English

“What he say any thing I like? Singulier!”

“Ahem!”

Harry Girdwood gave the word; a glance of intelligence went round.

They, to use Jack’s expression, pulled themselves together, and looked serious.

“It is headache,” said Jack. “Violent headache, he says.”

“Yes,” said Mole.

“Show your tongue.”

Mole thrust it out, and then the doctor felt his pulse.

“Very bad; you have the fever.”

“What?” ejaculated Mole, aghast.

“You have the fever.”

“What sort?”

The surgeon looked puzzled.

“Typhus or scarlet, I should say,” suggested Jack.

“What is that?” demanded the French doctor, curiously. “Je ne suis pas très fort I am not very strong in English.”

“Then, sir,” said Jack, “pray accept my compliments upon your proficiency; it is really very remarkable.”

“You are very good to say that,” returned the surgeon; “maïs now for our malade what is malade in English?”

“Patient.”

“Patient! Well, I hope that he will justify ze designation. What do you feel?” he added to Mr. Mole.

“Rush of blood to the head,” said Mole, thinking this quite a safe symptom to announce.

Yes, yes sans doute no doubt,” said the doctor, looking as wise as an owl. “We can make that better for you quick a little sinapisme.”

“That’s what you call a mustard plaister, isn’t it?” said Harry.

“Sinapisme mustard who?” demanded the French doctor of Jack.

“Plaister.”

“Merci.”

“I’m not going to have any mustard plaister on,” said Mole.

“Comment!” exclaimed the doctor; “il n’en veut pas! he will not! Morbleu! Ze prisonniers have what ze docteur ordonnances.”

“Will he?”

“Yes. You are quite right, doctor,” said Jack, in French. “Where is he to have on the plaister?”

“On his legs, at the back of his ankles,” replied the doctor; “it is to draw the blood from his head.”

“Very good, sir.”

Jack translated, and the patient singularly enough grew reassured immediately.

“It won’t hurt much on the back of your legs, Mr. Mole,” said Harry.

They enjoyed a quiet grin to themselves at this.

The prison doctor then sent the gaoler for writing materials for the purpose of writing out a prescription.

Then was their chance.

“Doctor,” said Jack, “I want to see the governor.”

“Why have you not asked, then, through the gaoler?”

“I prefer some other method.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know whether the gaoler is safe.”

“I don’t understand you,” said the doctor.

“I have written four letters to the British consul,” returned Jack, “and no answer has come.”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, I am afraid he has never received the letters.”

“Why?”

“Because my name is well known to him, and he would have replied. I have referred him to the chief banker of the town, who can readily identify me through my signature. I wish them to communicate with my father, and, in a word, to show the authorities how utterly ridiculous and preposterous is the charge against us in spite of appearances.”

Jack’s earnestness caught his attention.

“They would never dare to keep letters back.”

“Money has tempted them, I feel assured.”

“Whose money?”

“The money of a spy a fellow-countryman of ours, who has interest in keeping me out of the way.”

“His name?”

“His real name is Herbert Murray, his assumed name is Markby.”

“Markby; I know that name. Of course; he is the principal witness against you. You say his assumed name?”

“Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Easily; if I can get at the means of establishing a defence. It is to effect this, that I have addressed myself to the consul, but he does not reply, so that, monstrous and absurd as this charge is, we are unable to disprove it, simply because here we are tied hand and foot.”

“This is very strange.”

The doctor, as he spoke, shot them a dubious glance, which did not escape Jack.

“I tell you, sir, that my father is rich and influential. Moreover, he is exceedingly liberal in money matters with me. I have not the slightest need to add to my income by any means whatever, much less dishonest courses.”

“What proof can I offer to the governor?”

“Plenty,” returned Jack, eagerly. “Here is my father’s address in England; let him be communicated with immediately. This Markby is an unscrupulous rascal. He has forged my name to several cheques, and robbed me. He fears detection, and has built up a cunning plot, using the coiner, Lenoir, as his cat’s paw, and while we are caged here upon this ridiculous charge, he can get off to another part of the world.”

This convinced the prison surgeon completely.

“I will see the governor at once,” said he; “meanwhile, see that your obstinate old friend attends to my instructions, and he will soon be well.”

“Excuse me, doctor,” said Jack, “but the honest truth is that he is not ill at all.”

“Not ill!”

“No. We doubted the gaoler’s honesty, and, fearing he was bought over by our enemy, adopted this ruse.”

“To see me?”

“Yes.”

“Ha, ha! I see it all now; very ingenious on your part. Well, well, my young friend, I will see the governor at once, and you shall not be long in trouble.”

“You will earn my eternal gratitude, and that of my fellow-prisoners, as well as the much more substantial acknowledgment of my father.”

“Bien, bien,” said the surgeon smiling. “Au revoir!”

And bowing pleasantly to the prisoners generally, the doctor left the cell.

“There,” said Jack. “You may look upon that as settled, so comfort yourselves.”

“He has gone to the governor?” asked Mole.

“Yes.”

“Hurrah!”

“I hope it will go all right now,” said Harry Girdwood, who was scarcely so cheerful as his companions.

“You wretched old wet blanket!” exclaimed Jack, gaily, “of course it will.”

“Of course,” added Mole.

“You may consider yourself as good as outside the prison already.”

“I do, for one,” said Mole, quite hilarious at the prospect.

“Humph!” said Harry.