“See where the screw is standing?”
“He’s watching us.”
“And I’m watching him, Charley. We can beat this stir in an hour. Do you want to try it?”
“How you going to do it?”
“Will you follow me?”
“Yes, pal.”
“Wait till it gets a little darker. Then we’ll take the chance.”
The prison guard stood with his rifle lowered to the moist earth beneath the shed. His eyes ranged from the two convicts to the wall upon which were other guards sheltered in tiny guardhouses. He yawned and drowsed, standing.
Fay worked in a slow circle. He had seen the auto-truck come into the prison yard at noon. It was part of the road-gang’s outfit. There was no road-work that day, on account of the rain. The inmate driver had gone into the cellhouse.
Old Charley O’Mara let his pick dig into the earth with feeble strokes. He paused at times. There was that to Fay’s actions which presaged much. The gray-haired young man was gradually closing in on the drowsing guard. He was like a lean panther getting ready for a spring.