A sheer drop down the walls of the tower of a hundred feet or more lay between them and the ground. The only hope of escape lay by the doorway, and the chance of that was so remote that the Border Boy did not let his thoughts dwell on it.
"I guess we don't get any supper," said Jack, as the light in the cell faded out and the place became as black as a photographer's dark room.
"Guess not," assented Pete gloomily. "I could go a visit to the chuck wagon, too. Curious how sitting in a cell stimerlates the appetite. I'd recommend it to some of them dyspetomaniacs you reads of back East."
"I should think that the disease would be preferable to the cure," said Jack.
"Reckon so," said Pete, and once more their talk languished. Two human beings, confined in a small cell, soon exhaust available topics of conversation.
Suddenly the door opened, and the man who had brought them their dinner appeared. As he came inside the cell Pete rapidly slipped to the door. As the cow-puncher had hardly dared to hope, a brief glance showed him the passage was empty.
Then things began to happen.
Backward he fell, and lay sprawling on the floor like some ungainly spider.