Had they known what was going on in the county jail at about that time they would probably have not been quite so contented, at least they might not have snored quite so loudly.
CHAPTER XXIII
In the county jail there was a madman, or one not very far from it. As long as Mr. Graham was with him, Qualley had maintained his cool and indifferent air and had never for an instant given up the possibility of obtaining his release by some cunning scheme or inducement. He offered no resistance whatsoever and walked into the jail with the dignified mien of an injured and misjudged man. In fact he told Mr. Graham that he was sorry to see him following this false scent because he knew that he was really a just man and would some day sorely regret his hasty action.
It was so that Mr. Graham left him with no regrets and an earnest request that the jailer watch his prisoner with the greatest caution because he was a bad one. He told him that on no account should the prisoner be allowed to communicate with any one on the outside because he was only one of a large gang and would probably make a desperate attempt to warn his friends.
Left alone, a complete change came over Qualley. His studied dignity fell from him and the look of calm indifference gave way to a burning glare of hatred which contorted his whole face. He sprang to the window and watched Mr. Graham’s shadowy form disappear into the darkness with the look of a wild beast glaring through the bars of its cage.
When the last trace of the supervisor had died away Qualley seemed to lose all control of himself and became a maniac. He shook the bars of his cell furiously, pounded the walls with his bare fists and cursed till he frothed at the mouth. The jailer came to quiet him but fled at the mere sight of him. It seemed that, unarmed as he was, he must break through those concrete walls and iron bars by the sheer fury of his efforts.
The mood passed almost as suddenly as it had come upon him and he threw himself upon the bed panting from his exertions. “Fool,” he growled to himself, “where will that get you? They enjoy seeing you that way.”
Calmly now he began to think over the situation. He was caught and there was not much chance of his escape. There might possibly be some way out of that cell but it would not be by butting down the concrete wall with his head or biting off the iron bars with his teeth. If he was to get out he must use his head but not in the way he had been using it a few minutes before. He was thoroughly ashamed of that.
The first thing to do was to see if he could find a weapon or tool of any kind. There were seldom prisoners in that jail who were under a grave enough charge to make it worth their while really to try very hard to get out and the jailer might have become careless. He began a careful search of the room. The door was locked and seemed to be in good repair as near as he could tell in the dark. The bars in the window were not very heavy but they were too strong to break and they seemed to be firmly set in the concrete. One of them rattled a little and the concrete around the base of it seemed a little rough but it was solid enough. The floor was concrete like the walls.
He dropped to his knees and crawled slowly over the floor. There were only two articles of furniture in the room, a small bed and a chair, both of wood. If he only had a piece of iron and they would give him enough time he felt sure that he could work out of one of those window bars. Even wood might do it in time, but he doubted if they would keep him there long enough. Nevertheless, it would be something to do and something to live for so he set to work to wrench one of the rounds out of the chair.