"How!"
"I'll show you."
Stacy scraped industriously for a time, then lighting a match applied it to the spot on which he had been working. The splinters caught fire burned up briskly then went out. Stacy repeated the process with a similar result.
"I guess that will help a little," decided Tad, running his fingers over the spot.
"Just like singeing the pin feathers off an old hen—the feathers burn, but the hen doesn't," grumbled Stacy.
"Whew! the smoke's getting thick in here. We've got to stop the burning or we'll suffocate," warned Tad. "Wish I had an ax. I'd make short work of the old door."
They then began working with a grim determination, Stacy ceasing his joking. At last a tiny ray of light showed through the heavy door.
"Hurrah!" shouted Tad. "I see daylight."
"Then give me some bread. I'm hungry."
"Not yet. We're not out of our prison," laughed Tad. "Keep cutting. It will take all of an hour to make an opening large enough for me to get my hand through——"