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Updated: May 22, 2025
"Yes; let us show ourselves, and go back to prison, or " But before he could complete his proposition, they were jerked in the sack up on to their feet. "Come, let's do it quick" "Good!" "Phew!" grunted Barthes; "it's precious heavy." "Heavy enough for two," said Fleon. "Over with it. Now, then, both together at the word three." "One." "Two." "Three."
A piteous cry. It was cut short by the sharp flight through the air. A splash. Then all was still. The two ruffians stood staring at each other, their eyes half starting from their sockets. The perspiration stood out in big beads upon their foreheads, and they shook like ague-stricken wretches. "Look over," said Fleon in a hoarse whisper. "What do you see?"
They raised the sack on to the window ledge and "Oh, murder!" cried Barthes, his cheek blanching with terror. "I felt something move in the sack." "So did I," faltered Fleon. "It's alive," cried the man Barthes, turning pale. "Over with it, then; sharp." It was poised for an instant, no more, over the dizzy height. Then down it went. As it fell, a wild, despairing shriek went up to Heaven.
Then one of them listened at the door awhile. "You had better lock the door, Fleon," said one of the men. "What we have to do mustn't be overlooked." "True." The boys heard the door closed and locked, and the sound seemed to lock out another hope for them. "Now, Fleon, come here." "Well, what now?" "We must come to terms."
"Hah!" cried Harry, "I remember." And turning easily over, he shot out for the prison wall. A few strokes brought them in sight of a flight of stone steps under the archway. And as they catch sight of the steps on ahead, they become conscious that they are being pursued by another of those ravenous beasts of which Barthes and Fleon were talking in such cruel levity.
They dared not speak. And their worst fears were indeed correct. "Hullo!" "What now?" "Thirteen." "Yes." "You are wrong," said Fleon; "count them again." The man obeyed. "Thirteen; I was sure of it." "Well, that's a rum go," said Fleon. "I am positive that there were only twelve." "There's a baker's dozen now," said Barthes, with his brutal laugh; "the more the merrier." "Right."
"What are you staring at?" "I can't make out that thirteenth one." "Well, I don't see that that's any thing to weep over. Thirteen at dinner is an awkward number, they say; but I dare say that the sharks won't object to it; they're nor so weak-minded as to be superstitious. Ha, ha, ha!" But still Fleon could not get over this last sack. "I've got it." "What, where the last sack came from?" "Yes."
Keep your sacks." "And drop the bodies out into the water?" "Of course." "Impossible." "Why?" "They would float." "No matter, the sharks below would soon take care of the few that floated." "Are we agreed," cried Fleon, "for halves?" The other made some grumbling rejoinder, but grumbling he closed with the proposition. "Very good, very good," said Fleon, rubbing his hands.
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