“And I have a bad bruise in the right leg,” answered my fellow prisoner. “But still——Oh, Mark, look! The sunshine!”
Mr. Raymond broke off short and pointed upward. He was right. The shell which had torn up the sidewalk above us had left a hole in the dungeon ceiling nearly a foot in diameter.
“Can we get out?” I burst out eagerly.
“Perhaps—but the city is in the hands of our enemies.”
“I don’t care,” I went on recklessly. “Anything is better than staying here.”
“That is true.” Mr. Raymond arose and measured the distance from the hole to the cell floor. “It’s all of ten feet, Mark.”
“Let me balance myself on your shoulders,” I said, and now my athletic training at the military school stood me in good stead. Mr. Raymond raised me up into the air, and I caught the edge of the hole with ease.
Yet to pull myself up was no mean task. But I worked desperately, and finally found myself on the pavement. Crowds of people were rushing hither and thither, and no one paid any attention to me. Slipping off my jacket, I let down one sleeve.
“Take hold of that, and I’ll pull you up!” I cried to Mr. Raymond; and he did as bidden, and soon stood beside me.
A guard was now running toward us, and as he came on he discharged his Mauser rifle, but the bullet flew wide of its mark. “Halte!” he yelled, but we did nothing of the sort, but took to our heels and ran as if the very Old Nick was after us. Our course soon took us into a crowd of Cubans, and leaving these we made our way into a street which was little better than an alleyway for width. Finding the door of a house wide open, we slipped into the building and hid ourselves in an apartment in the rear.