“I leave it to you to say what that may be, an’ stand ready to jine in anythin’ that promises half a chance; but with the marine aboard, an’ the sentries on the ship ready to fire at the first show of tryin’ to get away, I can’t understand how we’ll be able to make a move.” “And if Luther Stedman should come to say we are Whigs, who took him and his friend prisoners, what then?” I asked. “Well, I reckon we’ll have a taste of prison life aboard a British vessel, an’ I’m told it ain’t at all comfortable,” Abel Grant said seriously. “Look here, the one thing to be done is to keep our upper lips stiff. We’re in a box where there ain’t much chance for backin’ out, an’ the only thing left is to show the bloomin’ Britishers that we’re no cowards. I shall stick to the story that we had nothin’ more in mind than a day’s fishin’, even if Luther Stedman stands in front of me. It ain’t what you might call real lyin’, an’ even if it was, I’ll allow that we’d be warranted in it, seein’s this is mighty serious, an’ we are servin’ the Cause.” Having thus shown us that he did not indulge in any hope of escape, Abel Grant crawled into one of the bunks as if it was his purpose to go to sleep; but Abraham and I sat there on the locker, holding each other by the hand, two as disheartened lads as could have been found in all the colonies. We had dreamed of being able to do men’s work in this fight for liberty, and yet had come to grief before really beginning the first task set us. The only ray of comfort I could see in all the wretched business was, that it had been brought about through no fault of ours. We had simply obeyed orders, and in the obeying had come to a prison. How long we two sat there side by side, leaning one against the other as if the friendly contact strengthened our courage, I cannot say. Surely it must have been an hour, and during all that time Abel Grant remained motionless, even more silent than if he had really been asleep. Then it was that an unusual movement of the sloop told us the marine had changed position, and an instant later we heard him crying to some of his comrades on the ship: “Pass me down some oil-skins, will you? There is no need of gettin’ soaked through, even though I am forced to stand guard over a lot of bloomin’ colonists.” “Why does he want oil-skins?” Abel Grant muttered, and then in the dim light of the cuddy I could see him creeping toward the hatchway. A moment later he stole softly back to where we were sitting, and whispered excitedly: “Lads, there’s as thick a fog smother come in from sea as I ever looked at, an’ who knows but that it’s our one chance?” “Chance for what?” I whispered irritably. “How can we do anythin’ while that red-coated marine sits aft with his musket ready to shoot us if we happen to show ourselves in a way that doesn’t happen to please him?”