“One minute,” said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening.
“Why, you didn’t try if it was fastened,” cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door.
It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot.
“They don’t mean to let us go, Mas’ Don,” said Jem. “Come on, and let’s get the rope done.”
They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road—one peck and two looks out for danger.
Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight.
He envied Jem’s stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod.
Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing—it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain.
In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark.
“Going to be a storm, Jem,” he said. “Will the rain hurt the rope?”