“You might as well go with him quietly, Smith”—the Doctor began.
“No I won’t,” I interrupted. “Should I do so, it is not positively certain that he would get back in a sound condition, and you might lose a valuable servant, who is not scrupulous about turning his hand to any sort of work.”
“Call the guard,” said the Doctor.
The guard was called.
I was put in the cellar.
Only a few dim rays of light found their way into my dismal prison, and they came struggling through a small crevice in the double partition of thick pine boards that divided the “cell” from the knapsack-room. On this formidable partition I at once went to work, with extraordinary nonchalance, with a small six-bladed knife I had in my pocket. I think this course was much more laudable than that pursued by Mr. Thomas, when confined in the same apartment, with a knife for a companion.
I worked diligently, cutting off one thin shaving after another, till night came; by which time I had actually cut a hole in the thick partition through which I could easily thrust my arm.
Next morning, after a miserable fragment of repose on an old mattress, I arose early, and resumed my work. I had not been long at it when Sergeant Kinsley came down with some provisions for me, consisting of bread and water. I took the large tin cup of water from his hand, dashed it in his face, slammed the iron door to, braced it with one of my crutches, and went at my work again; while he, strangling, sputtering and swearing in wild rage, locked the door, and rushed up stairs.
Cutting, splintering and shaving, I worked away, and by noon, I had made an aperture in the wall through which one might have thrown a hat—that wasn’t too wide in the brim.
By and by, I heard some one coming down the steps, and a light from the door above shone down through the bars of the iron door. Some one unlocked it and entered. It was one of the guards—one who had been wounded in the service.