“A dreadful—dreadful affair,” insisted the warden.
He started toward the edge of the pit. “And the prison commissioners, the way state finances are, will never go to the expense of having all that rock moved to dig him out.”
“Probably not, seeing that he's under the whole of it,” agreed Wagg. “He was a likable chap, spite of what he had done to get in here. Poor Two-Seven-Nine!”
One of the inside guards had arrived at the scene of mourning. He was greatly excited. “And I guess it's poor Two-Eight-Two! He's missing from the noon count-up, Mr. Warden!”
Wagg struggled upon his feet. He was not simulating the new phase of his emotions. He looked distinctly frightened. “There's only one under there. I saw him go. Who is Two-Eight-Two?”
“One of the pair sent down from Levant for breaking and entering in the nighttime.”
“He wasn't in my crew—he wasn't on outdoor work,” shouted Wagg.
“What was his job?” demanded the warden.
“Harness shop,” reported an officer. He called to another guard and started into the building indicated.
All those in the yard waited anxiously, their eyes on the door where the guards had entered. Promptly the officers came out. One propelled a convict, clutching the collar of the dingy prison coat; the other carried a length of narrow ladder that was fashioned from strips of leather. “I reckon he hid out to work on this,” said the guard.