The coach, with an intuitive perception of what was expected of it, plunged into the centre of the kindling shavings, and stopped.  The flames sprung up and clung to the rotten woodwork, which burned like tinder.  At this moment a figure was seen leaping wildly from the inside of the blazing coach.  The figure made three bounds towards us, and tripped over Harry Blake.  It was Pepper Whitcomb, with his hair somewhat singed, and his eyebrows completely scorched off!

Pepper had slyly ensconced himself on the back seat before we started, intending to have a neat little ride down hill, and a laugh at us afterwards.  But the laugh, as it happened, was on our side, or would have been, if half a dozen watchmen had not suddenly pounced down upon us, as we lay scrambling on the ground, weak with mirth over Pepper’s misfortune.  We were collared and marched off before we well knew what had happened.

The abrupt transition from the noise and light of the Square to the silent, gloomy brick room in the rear of the Meat Market seemed like the work of enchantment.  We stared at each other, aghast.

“Well,” remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly smile, “this is a go!”

“No go, I should say,” whimpered Harry Blake, glancing at the bare brick walls and the heavy ironplated door.

“Never say die,” muttered Phil Adams, dolefully.

The bridewell was a small low-studded chamber built up against the rear end of the Meat Market, and approached from the Square by a narrow passage-way.  A portion of the rooms partitioned off into eight cells, numbered, each capable of holding two persons.  The cells were full at the time, as we presently discovered by seeing several hideous faces leering out at us through the gratings of the doors.

A smoky oil-lamp in a lantern suspended from the ceiling threw a flickering light over the apartment, which contained no furniture excepting a couple of stout wooden benches.  It was a dismal place by night, and only little less dismal by day, tall houses surrounding “the lock-up” prevented the faintest ray of sunshine from penetrating the ventilator over the door—­long narrow window opening inward and propped up by a piece of lath.

As we seated ourselves in a row on one of the benches, I imagine that our aspect was anything but cheerful.  Adams and Harris looked very anxious, and Harry Blake, whose nose had just stopped bleeding, was mournfully carving his name, by sheer force of habit, on the prison bench.  I don’t think I ever saw a more “wrecked” expression on any human countenance than Pepper Whitcomb’s presented.  His look of natural astonishment at finding himself incarcerated in a jail was considerably heightened by his lack of eyebrows.

As for me, it was only by thinking how the late Baron Trenck would have conducted himself under similar circumstances that I was able to restrain my tears.

None of us were inclined to conversation.  A deep silence, broken now and then by a startling snore from the cells, reigned throughout the chamber.  By and by Pepper Whitcomb glanced nervously towards Phil Adams and said, “Phil, do you think they will—­hang us?”