As I sat there waiting for the guard and steeling myself to lie boldly, shamelessly, for Barreau’s sake and my own, my gaze rested speculatively on the pieces of flooring I had laid over the hole. I intended to kick them aside as I rushed to the window and gabbled my tale to the guard. But I did not rush to the window nor did I gabble to the guard, for I saw the pieces of plank slide softly apart and a hand came through the opening thus made—a hand that waved imperative warning for me to lie down. The guard passed as I drew the cover over me. He barely glanced in. Before the squeak of his chair out in front told of his settling down, I was up on elbow, staring.
Again the planks slid apart, this time clear of the hole. In the same moment something took shape in the black square, something that rose quickly till I could see that it was the head and shoulders of a man. I sat mute, startled, filled with wonder and some dismay. The dull light touching his features showed me Barreau, dirt-stained, sweatdrops on his forehead, beckoning to me. I leaned to catch his whisper.
“I came back for you, kid,” he breathed. “You’re slated for trouble. The cabin of the Moon’s purser was robbed the night you left, and it’s laid to you. There’s a deputy from Benton here after you. You’ll get a hard deal. Better chance it with me.”
“Robbery,” I muttered. “Good God, what next?”
“Extradition—and a hard fight to clear yourself. Weeks, maybe months, in the calaboose. Come on with me. You’ll get home sooner, I’ll promise you that.”
“I’ve a mind to go you,” I declared bitterly. “I seem doomed to be an Ishmael.”
“Hurry, then,” he admonished, “or we’ll be nabbed in the act. Slip in here quietly and crawl after me. Just as you are. Bring your shoes in your hand.”
Thus, willy-nilly, I found myself in the black, dank space between the floor and the ground. The blackness and musty smell endured no more than a few seconds. The passage to the outer wall was shorter than I had thought. Presently I followed Barreau through a tight hole, and stood erect in the gloom of a cloudy night—a night well fitted for desperate deeds.
“Give me your hand,” said Barreau, when I had put on my brogans.
The dark might have been made to order for our purpose. I could barely see Barreau at my elbow. His hand was a needed aid. Together we moved softly away from the guardhouse, and, once clear of it, ran like hunted things. Looking back over my shoulder once, I saw the guardhouse lights, pale yellow squares set in solid ebony. The rest of the post lay unlighted, hidden away in the dark.