He went to the window and pressed against it.
“There’s an iron bar or a chain across the outside,” he muttered to himself, “and the shutters is an inch thick. It’s no go!”
He felt the boards along the wall with his feet carefully; one of them seemed a little loose.
“If I could raise a bit of the floor and burrow out, like they do in some of those detective yarns, it would be O.K.,” he reflected; “but I got nothin’ to burrow with—unless I break the handle of the washin’ jug,” he added as an after-thought, “an’ sharpen one end.”
But another minute’s consideration convinced him of the futility of this idea.
“It’s all up,” he cried at last in despair. “I’ll be found out an’ took back or sent to gaol! I wonder where Dave is, anyhow.”
Just at this moment Tom heard a bird calling off somewhere towards the river bank.
“Morepoke,” he said listening. “I misremember ever hearin’ a morepoke callin’ so late at night.”
The cries of the night bird were repeated at regular intervals; they seemed to come nearer.