“Is it transportation for rick-burning?” inquired Ripton aghast.

Adrian spoke solemnly:  “They shave your head.  You are manacled.  Your diet is sour bread and cheese-parings.  You work in strings of twenties and thirties.  Arson is branded on your backs in an enormous A. Theological works are the sole literary recreation of the well-conducted and deserving.  Consider the fate of this poor fellow, and what an act of vengeance brings him to!  Do you know his name?”

“How should I know his name?” said Richard, with an assumption of innocence painful to see.

Sir Austin remarked that no doubt it would soon be known, and Adrian perceived that he was to quiet his line, marvelling a little at the baronet’s blindness to what was so clear.  He would not tell, for that would ruin his influence with Richard; still he wanted some present credit for his discernment and devotion.  The boys got away from dinner, and, after deep consultation, agreed upon a course of conduct, which was to commiserate with Farmer Blaize loudly, and make themselves look as much like the public as it was possible for two young malefactors to look, one of whom already felt Adrian’s enormous A devouring his back with the fierceness of the Promethean eagle, and isolating him forever from mankind.  Adrian relished their novel tactics sharply, and led them to lengths of lamentation for Farmer Blaize.  Do what they might, the hook was in their gills.  The farmer’s whip had reduced them to bodily contortions; these were decorous compared with the spiritual writhings they had to perform under Adrian’s manipulation.  Ripton was fast becoming a coward, and Richard a liar, when next morning Austin Wentworth came over from Poer Hall bringing news that one Mr. Thomas Bakewell, yeoman, had been arrested on suspicion of the crime of Arson and lodged in jail, awaiting the magisterial pleasure of Sir Miles Papworth.  Austin’s eye rested on Richard as he spoke these terrible tidings.  The hope of Raynham returned his look, perfectly calm, and had, moreover, the presence of mind not to look at Ripton.

CHAPTER VI

As soon as they could escape, the boys got together into an obscure corner of the park, and there took counsel of their extremity.

“Whatever shall we do now?” asked Ripton of his leader.

Scorpion girt with fire was never in a more terrible prison-house than poor Ripton, around whom the raging element he had assisted to create seemed to be drawing momently narrower circles.

“There’s only one chance,” said Richard, coming to a dead halt, and folding his arms resolutely.

His comrade inquired with the utmost eagerness what that chance might be.

Richard fixed his eyes on a flint, and replied:  “We must rescue that fellow from jail.”

Ripton gazed at his leader, and fell back with astonishment.  “My dear Ricky! but how are we to do it?”