"'Tain't that kind of apology," whispered Guzzy. "It's a steel one—a tool—one of those things that gunsmiths shorten gun-barrels with. If they can saw a rifle-barrel in two in five minutes, you ought to get out of here inside of an hour."
"Not quite," whispered Beigh. "My hands and feet are ironed."
"Then I'll do the job myself," whispered Guzzy, as he applied the tool to one of the bars; "for it will be daylight within two hours."
The unaccustomed labor—for Guzzy was a bookkeeper—made his arms ache severely, but still he sawed away.
He wondered what his employer would say should he be found out, but still he sawed.
Visions of the uplifted hands and horror-struck countenances of his brother Church-members came before his eyes, and the effect of his example upon his Sunday-school class, should he be discovered, tormented his soul; but neither of these influences affected his saw.
Bar after bar disappeared, and when Guzzy finally stopped to rest, Beigh saw a small square of black sky, unobstructed by any bars whatever.
"Now," whispered Guzzy, "I'll drop in a small box you can stand on, so you can put your hands out and let me file off your irons. I brought a file or two, thinking they might come handy."
Five minutes later the convict, his hands unbound, crawled through the window, and was helped to the ground by Guzzy.