He looks at me quizzically, searchingly. The faint echo of the Captain's step reaches us from a gallery on the opposite side. With a quick glance to right and left, Wingie leans over toward the door. His mouth between the bars, he whispers very low:
"Principles opposed to a get-a-way, Aleck?"
The sudden question bewilders me. The instinct of liberty, my revolutionary spirit, the misery of my existence, all flame into being, rousing a wild, tumultuous beating of my heart, pervading my whole being with hope, intense to the point of pain. I remain silent. Is it safe to trust him? He seems kind and sympathetic—
"You may trust me, Aleck," Wingie whispers, as if reading my thoughts. "I'm your friend."
"Yes, Wingie, I believe you. My principles are not opposed to an escape. I have been thinking about it, but so far—"
"S-sh! Easy. Walls have ears."
"Any chance here, Wingie?"
"Well, it's a damn tough dump, this 'ere is; but there's many a star in heaven, Aleck, an' you may have a lucky one. Hasn't been a get-a-way here since Paddy McGraw sneaked over th' roof, that's—lemme see, six, seven years ago, 'bout."
"How did he do it?" I ask, breathlessly.
"Jest Irish luck. They was finishin' the new block, you know. Paddy was helpin' lay th' roof. When he got good an' ready, he jest goes to work and slides down th' roof. Swiped stuff in the mat shop an' spliced a rope together, see. They never got 'im, either."