Again he rolled over, this time on his back, raising his feet until, by straining, he brought the cord against the shelf. And all the time came the ring of the trowel and the crooning song of Rex Lander. He knew at once that it was a hopeless proposition. The sharp edge was beneath the shelf, he could only reach the upper surface. Crossing his legs to get a better purchase, he felt the strap slip upward. By pushing at the strap he brought it to below his knees and he could have yelled his delight for now the cord was slack and he would, he thought, at least be able to stand.
The sound of amateur brick-laying ceased suddenly and Rex came to the grating.
“You’re wasting your time doing all those funny tricks,” he said confidently. “I practised that tie all one evening and you’ll not get away. If you come out you’ll be sorry!”
“Avaunt fat man!” snarled Tab. “Get to your flesh pots, gross feeder!”
Rex chuckled.
“Partial to tab lines, eh?”
“Get out of my sight,” said Tab, “you theatrical poseur! All the money you have couldn’t make you a gentleman—”
He was interrupted by the torrent of rage which swept down upon him from the impotent man outside.
“I wish I’d killed you,” he screamed. “My God, if I could get in—”
“But you can’t,” said Tab, “that is why the position is so remarkably free from anxiety. Carver knows—don’t forget that. Carver will have you on the trap—he has promised himself that treat, though I can’t see how they’ll hang a crazy man,” he went on. Lander clawed at the steel plate, sobbing in his rage.