It was scarcely two inches long, but was the nearest approach to a cutting tool that had come anywhere near his reach. He managed to shuffle near it; he put his foot on it. Eventually he sat down on his heels, got the triangular bit of steel into his hands, and transferred it to his trousers pocket. It was not much, but it might be something.
The day dragged on. That afternoon something went by on the river outside, invisible through the trees—probably a raft of timber. Toward evening they fed him and put him back in his bunk, tying his hands once more at the wrists.
A clammy white fog from the swamps drifted smokily through the doorways. The whole cabin was hazy and damp. The pirates had a big fire burning on the shore; he could see the red reflection of it; and then, faint and rapidly increasing, he heard the distant drumming of the engine of a motor boat coming down the river.
Every nerve thrilled in him. It was destiny that was coming, he knew. He heard the boat slacken, then scrape through the willow boughs that masked the bayou, and then a bump upon the house boat, and a voice.
His heart sank. It was worse than destiny; it was disaster.
“Got him safe?” said Hanna.
“Got him alive,” returned Bob. “Ruther hev him dead?”
“I sure would,” said the other earnestly.
Then there was a long, hoarse mutter of talk which Lockwood could not make out. Hanna was arguing something. Then silence fell. Feet trampled the deck outside, and Blue Bob came into the cabin, carrying a flaring torch of fat pine, which filled the foggy room with resinous smoke and a lurid light. Hanna followed him, and looked down at Lockwood in his bunk.
“I’ve got no time to fool with you now,” he said curtly. “You asked for this and you’ve got it. Now these fellows’ll float you down to Mobile, and Harding’ll give you a ticket to Chicago and fifty dollars. Right now you’ll give me the signed statement I mentioned, saying that you’ve looked into my enterprise and consider it quite sound.”