The scheme—like all great ideas—was simplicity itself.
That evening, when the cell-door was securely locked, and the absence of a visiting gaoler might be counted upon for an hour at least, Bland produced a straw, and held it out to his companions. Dawes took it, and tearing it into unequal lengths, handed the fragments to Mooney.
“The longest is the one,” said the blind man. “Come on, boys, and dip in the lucky-bag!”
It was evident that lots were to be drawn to determine to whom fortune would grant freedom. The men drew in silence, and then Bland and Dawes looked at each other. The prize had been left in the bag. Mooney—fortunate old fellow—retained the longest straw. Bland's hand shook as he compared notes with his companion. There was a moment's pause, during which the blank eyeballs of the blind man fiercely searched the gloom, as if in that awful moment they could penetrate it.
“I hold the shortest,” said Dawes to Bland. “'Tis you that must do it.”
“I'm glad of that,” said Mooney.
Bland, seemingly terrified at the danger which fate had decreed that he should run, tore the fatal lot into fragments with an oath, and sat gnawing his knuckles in excess of abject terror. Mooney stretched himself out upon his plank-bed. “Come on, mate,” he said. Bland extended a shaking hand, and caught Rufus Dawes by the sleeve.
“You have more nerve than I. You do it.”
“No, no,” said Dawes, almost as pale as his companion. “I've run my chance fairly. 'Twas your own proposal.” The coward who, confident in his own luck, would seem to have fallen into the pit he had dug for others, sat rocking himself to and fro, holding his head in his hands.
“By Heaven, I can't do it,” he whispered, lifting a white, wet face.