“Hallo! Who’s that?” came a muffled answer.
Phil repeated his name again more loudly.
“Come to the chimney!” he cried. “I am up here.”
A minute passed, and then the small patch of light which he could just discern beneath was suddenly obscured.
“Who are you? Whatever is happening?” McNeil asked in an eager whisper. “Hush! Speak low. The jailer lives close outside my cell.”
“Do you remember Corporal Western and his friend? The two who helped you with the flag?” asked Phil, making a funnel of his hands.
“Yes, of course I do. But who are you?”
“I am Corporal Western, or rather I was,” said Phil. “I am now a lieutenant in the 30th. But I will explain later. My friend and I, together with a Frenchman, were wrecked and blown ashore this morning. That brute Stackanoff recognised us, and has put us in the cell next to yours, with the accusation that we are spies.”
“Stackanoff! That man must die, Western,” the stern answer came. “He has treated me with the foulest brutality. I am half-starved, and altogether lame, for the second wound I received while trying to escape has festered, and I am racked with fever. For God’s sake get me out of this, old chap!”
“I mean to,” Phil cried cheerfully. “We have no idea how we shall get out yet, but we gave the Russians the slip once before, and will do so now. Be ready at any moment. But I will try to warn you in good time. Now I will slip back, but to-morrow I will come right down into your prison.”