Rat-it-all knew. Forewarned is forearmed. Moreover, when your
country is at war, and silence holds the city, there is great comfort
in a chat. Nicky-Nan advanced with a fine air of nonchalance.

"Lookin' at the sky?" said he. "Wind's back in the nor'-west again.
Which, for settled weather, I'd rather it took off-shore a bit later
in the afternoon. It'll last though, for all that, I shoudn'
wonder."

Policeman Rat-it-all withdrew his gaze from the firmament.

"I wasn' thinkin' of the wind," said he. "I take no account of the
elements, for my part. Never did; and now never shall--havin' been
born up to Bodmin, where the prison is."

"Oh!" said Nicky-Nan suspiciously. "What's it like?"

"Bodmin?" Policeman Rat-it-all seemed to reflect for a moment.
"Well, I wouldn't just say it's altogether _like_ any place in
particular. There's a street, of course, . . . and there's the
prison, and the barracks, and an asylum where they keep the lunatics,
and a workhouse and what-not. But if you put to me, in so many
words, what it's _like_--"

"I--I meant the prison," explained Nicky-Nan; that being the only
feature of Bodmin in which he felt any instant concern.

"It's a place," answered Policeman Rat-it-all with painful lucidity,
"where they shut people up. Sometimes there's an execution. But not
often; not very often; once in a while, as you might say. There's a