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UNCLE JOSEPH FLATMAN had made no complaint, finding the tables so effectually turned upon him, and himself in the position in which he had lately held Robert Holland. He struck a match, and took a casual survey of the drive. On the floor by the bunk was a pound carton of candles from which only one had been abstracted, the last allowance sent down to Holland. One of these Uncle Joseph lit, and then he seated himself on the bunk, taking possession of the only comfortable sleeping place in the act. Slocombe was complaining bitterly. Peter Shuter walked the length of the drive, surveying his prison. Apparently Flatman's bitter outbreak in the cavern was already forgotten.
"Ere's a pretty mess yiv got us all into," wailed Slocombe. "Ere we are, 'n' 'ere we stick, till the coppers come up from Melbin', 'n' walk us in fer twenty bloomin' years. I knoo it was comin'. I alwiz said we'd fall into the soup sooner or later. Didn' I say so, Peter Shuter--ain't I said it to you agin 'n' agin?"