He must resort to some other means.
He felt his way back to his seat, and sat there till the grey light of morning shed its cold wan rays into his cell.
The light, ghastly as it was, appeared to inspire him with strength and hope, for he now rose, drove the hook back into the wall, removed the white dust which was scattered on the floor, and, suspending his bed to the hooks on each side of the cell like a hammock, flung himself upon it, and, wore out with watching throughout the livelong night, fell into a sound sleep.
His first night’s experience had not inspired him with much hope; on the contrary, it had almost driven him to despair; but there is an old saying, that a drowning man will catch at a straw, and Chudley, despite the difficulties that were in the way, still clung tenaciously to his fondly-cherished scheme.
The turnkeys in attendance on him observed nothing remarkable in the demeanour of No. 9, except that he was always occupied with his books; so busy was he with them that he hardly honoured the prison officials with even a cursory glance when any one of them entered his cell.
This was most remarkable in a man of his class, and the officials could not help noticing this.
“He’s a queer sort of customer,” said one—“one of the oddest chaps I ever came across. I sometimes think he hasn’t got his right change.”
“Ah! don’t you run away with that idea,” said another turnkey. “He’s a jolly sight more artful than people suppose.”
“Well, but the fellow takes such strange fancies. Sometimes at his books, sometimes he’s writing away like mad, and yesterday he wanted parcels and big sheets of white paper, because he must try his hand at drawing. I suppose he thinks himself a sort of genius.”
“That man is a mystery,” said the deputy governor, joining the men, “but more knave than fool—mind you that. Keep your eyes well upon him.”