But Phil didn’t hear him. He was asleep. Ronnie sat up, and opening the door of the ash box, watched the last piece of rubber burn away to nothing. Soon nothing remained within the box but a few black, cold cinders.
Now what, he asked himself? What was there left to try? If only he had a tool of some kind—a pick or a shovel. With the pick he could smash a way through the stout floor boards. With the shovel he could dig to the surface. But he didn’t have a pick or a shovel. All he had was Bill’s broken penknife. The little blade was left, of course, but it wasn’t strong enough for such a giant job as cutting through the trap door or the floor.
But perhaps it would be better than doing nothing, better than just waiting and hoping. It would take a long, long time. One little splinter of wood after another. Minute after minute. Hour after hour. Being very careful not to get angry as Phil had done and break another blade.
Eventually he might get through—if his strength lasted.
He chose a spot where there were no knots and the wood looked softest. Chip after chip he removed, each no longer or thicker than a needle. “I’ll never get through,” he thought. “Not ever.”
And then, like something in a dream, he heard voices overhead, muffled and indistinct. Then he heard a louder sound—the crash of an ax breaking through one of the walls. A section of the siding gave way and crashed to the floor. The voices were louder now, and Ronnie heard footsteps, too, crossing the room.
“That was a smoke signal we saw from the chimney.” It was his father’s voice speaking! “As sure as I’m standing here, it was a signal.”
A wide grin broadened Ronnie’s face and lit up his eyes. The sound of his father’s voice was the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard in his life. “Dad! Dad!” he called. “We’re down here.”
Then Ronnie turned and gently shook his brother. “You can wake up now, Phil. Dad’s here,” he said.