“Frycollin!” said Uncle Prudent.
“Master Uncle! Master Uncle!” answered the Negro between two of his lugubrious howls.
“It is possible that we are doomed to die of hunger in this prison, but we have made up our minds not to succumb until we have availed ourselves of every means of alimentation to prolong our lives.”
“To eat me?” exclaimed Frycollin.
“As is always done with a Negro under such circumstances! So you had better not make yourself too obvious—”
“Or you’ll have your bones picked!” said Evans.
And as Frycollin saw he might be used to prolong two existences more precious than his own, he contented himself thenceforth with groaning in quiet.
The time went on and all attempts to force the door or get through the wall proved fruitless. What the wall was made of was impossible to say. It was not metal; it was not wood; it was not stone, And all the cell seemed to be made of the same stuff. When they stamped on the floor it gave a peculiar sound that Uncle Prudent found it difficult to describe; the floor seemed to sound hollow, as if it was not resting directly on the ground of the clearing. And the inexplicable f-r-r-r-r seemed to sweep along below it. All of which was rather alarming.
“Uncle Prudent.” said Phil Evans.
“Well?”