I tried in several places—in fact, all over the top—and at every point I could bury my blade as far as the haft would let it go, with a very slight effort used to push it in. Certainly the package consisted of some substance I had not before encountered, but as to what it was I could form no idea.
However, it did not feel as though it would present a serious obstacle to my progress; and under this pleasant impression, I went to work to undermine it, by taking a board out of the lid upon which it lay.
This, of course, required me to go through the tedious and painful process of making a cross-section with my knife—a kind of work that absorbed more of my time, and caused me more labour, than all the rest put together. But it was absolutely necessary, for there was no other plan by which I could tunnel through the tops of the boxes. On each rested the heavy weight of the packages above, and to start one of the planks, with this weight pressing down upon it, was impossible. It was only by cutting them across that they could be removed.
The lid of the bonnet-box did not prove so difficult to cut through. It was of thin deal, and in about a half or three quarters of an hour I had the middle piece of the three—for there were just three boards in it—cut into twain. The sections were easily bent downwards, and removed.
A patch of the canvas covering was then hacked off, and I could now get my hand upon the unknown package that was resting on the top. I recognised the object at once. I had been enough about my uncle’s barn to know the feel of a sack. This, then, was a sack.
It was full of something: of what?—wheat, or barley, or oats? No, it was not grain—something softer and finer: was it a sack of meal?
I should soon ascertain that. My blade entered the sack, and a slit was cut large enough to admit my fist. I had no need to thrust my hand inside, for as I held it under the vent thus opened, I felt a soft, powdery substance streaming downward, with which my palm was instantly filled; and as my fingers closed upon it, I felt satisfied that I had got hold of a fistful of flour. My hand went straight to my lips, and a single taste of the precious dust confirmed my conjecture. It was a sack of flour.
This was a joyous discovery. Here was food, and enough to last me for months! No more danger of starvation—no more rat diet. No. On flour and water I could live like a prince. What matter if it was raw? it was sweet, and palatable, and wholesome.
“Heaven be praised! I am no longer in danger!”
Some such exclamation escaped me, as I arrived at a full appreciation of the importance of my new discovery.