Then he began to file.
A quarter-past ten—half-past ten—a quarter to eleven—— He filed and filed, and every grating scrape of the iron was as though someone were filing on his body and brain. “I wonder which will be filed through first,” he said to himself with a little laugh; “I or the bars?” And he set his teeth and went on filing.
Half-past eleven. He was still filing, though the hand was stiff and swollen and would hardly grasp the tool. No, he dared not stop to rest; if he once put the horrible thing down he should never have the courage to begin again.
The sentinel moved outside the door, and the butt end of his carbine scratched against the lintel. The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the file still in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?
A little round pellet had been shot through the spy-hole and was lying on the floor. He laid down the file and stooped to pick up the round thing. It was a bit of rolled paper.
It was a long way to go down and down, with the black waves rushing about him—how they roared——!
Ah, yes! He was only stooping down to pick up the paper. He was a bit giddy; many people are when they stoop. There was nothing the matter with him—nothing.
He picked it up, carried it to the light, and unfolded it steadily.
“Come to-night, whatever happens; the Cricket will be transferred to-morrow to another service. This is our only chance.”