But he made one more try. Possibly a picture or newspaper had been tacked on the wall and had escaped his fingers when he had first gone round the room.
There was no better luck this time and when he came again to the door he was ready to admit defeat.
Then, in a flash, he knew he wasn’t beaten! Far from it. As he yanked off his coat he muttered savagely to himself.
“You poor nut! You haven’t any sense anyway!”
After his coat, Bob ripped off his flannel shirt and tore it down a seam. Then, with the greatest care, he began to unravel the threads that made up the fabric. The loose threads would burn when the cloth itself would only go out. Before he had a pile of threads that he felt would be sufficient for his purpose, his fingers ached and his nails were bleeding.
At last, however, he decided to take the chance of having enough. Going over the stack of sticks, he selected the smallest and those that had already been somewhat burned, as they would be the easiest to catch fire again. Then he separated his flannel ravelings into three piles and put them against the door.
Now came the crucial moment. He felt in the pocket where he thought he had put the single match that might possibly be the key to his prison, and for a second was sick with fear that he had lost it. But his fingers closed on the precious object and he breathed again.
Holding it as if it were glass, Bob scratched it on the hard floor. It did not light. Again he pulled it across the hard surface and a little flare spurted from the head and then died out.
Bob gasped. He was sure that the match’s usefulness was over, but feverishly, throwing caution to the winds, he rasped the head against the planking of the door.
It lit, flashing a glare into his eyes so accustomed to the utter darkness. But his gesture had been so violent that the stick broke and the flaming head flew off and fell on the floor.