"Let me out!" I called. "Let me out! You can not mean to leave me here!" But there was no answer, except the retreating footsteps of him who had thrust me into this hateful prison. I pounded until I was weary, more because I was devoured with my rage than because I expected any response, and when I was exhausted with my futile efforts I threw myself on the floor, oblivious to everything but my sorrow.
As I lay there, alternately groaning and raging, I did not at first hear the faint sound which after a long time was made to attract my attention. Scratch, scratch, scratch, it went, but I did not heed it. It might be a rat, or some pestilent animal. I had not heard any footsteps in the corridor. I hoped that I should hear some more footfalls, but none came. All was as silent as the tomb.
Scratch, scratch, scratch, it came again. At last I awoke to the fact that this might be meant for me.
"Who is that?" I called.
"It's me," answered the Skipper's voice, grammarless, but, oh, how welcome!
"Good God!" I said; "it can't be you?"
"But it is me," shouted the Skipper, regardless of other ears, "darned if it ain't."
For a moment I was too amazed to speak.
"He's bagged the whole of us, hasn't he?" said the Skipper.
I looked to the back of the cell, the place where the sound seemed to come from. There I saw that the stone had sagged a little, and gave room for sound, if not for sight.