“Lock the door,” exclaimed some one as Tom was thrust inside. “Then a few of us will have to stand guard and the others can go back and help bring up the rest.”
Tom staggered against some tables and chairs in the dark interior of the shack. He managed to find a place to sit down.
“We’re a bright lot of lads,” thought the scrub pitcher, “to be taken in after this fashion. We should have stuck together and then we could have fought off the sophs. But it’s too late now. I wonder if Sid was caught?”
He listened and could hear the retreating steps of his captors. That all had not gone and that some were left on guard was indicated by the low talk that went on outside and by the tramping about the shack of several lads.
“Can he get out?” Tom heard some one ask.
“No. The place is nailed up tight.”
“Maybe I can’t and maybe I can,” mused Tom. “Anyhow I’m going to have a look. Wait until I strike a match.”
Holding his hat as a protection, so that no gleams would penetrate possible cracks in the door, Tom struck a light and examined the walls of his prison. The shack consisted of only one room and was cluttered up with chairs, tables, benches, counters and other things. Tom at once eliminated from his plan of escape the front, as there he knew the sophomores would remain on guard. He must try either the sides or the back. The sides, he saw, were out of the question, as they contained only small windows, hardly big enough for him to get through. In addition the casements were closed by heavy wooden shutters, nailed fast.
“No use trying them,” thought Tom. “The back is the only place.”
This he examined with care, and to his delight he saw what he thought would enable him to get out. This was an opening near the top, and it was closed by a thin wooden shutter swinging on a hinge.