Patience Wins: War in the Works

by George Manville Fenn

I asked myself these questions as I bent towards the furnace, touching the wire which glided on through my hand towards the window by the dam.

It was all a matter of moments, and I could feel that someone must be drawing the wire out there by the dam, though how I could not tell, for it seemed to me that there was nothing but deep water there.

“Some one must have floated down the dam in a boat,” I thought in a flash; but no explanation came to the next part of my question, what was it for?

As I bent forward there wondering what it could mean, I began to understand that there must be some one out in the lane at the other end of the wire, and in proof of this surmise I heard a low scraping noise at the window on my right, and then a hiss as if someone had drawn his breath in between his lips.

What could it mean?

I was one moment for shouting, “Who’s there?” the next for turning on my bull’s-eye; and again the next for running and rousing up Uncle Jack.

Then I thought that I would shout and call to Piter; but I felt that if I did either of these things I should lose the clue that was gliding through my hands.

What could it mean?

The wire, invisible to me, kept softly stirring the glowing ashes, and seemed to be visible there. Elsewhere it was lost in the black darkness about me, but I felt it plainly enough, and in my intense excitement, hundreds of yards seemed to have passed through my hand before I felt a check and in a flash knew what was intended.

For, all at once, as the wire glided on, something struck against my hand gently, and raising the other it came in contact with a large canister wrapped round and round with stout soft cord.