Tom was too sensible to make his trip to the bushes each night. For one thing he wanted to give the mildly corrosive process a chance to weaken the wires. It was a case for small doses. Also he could not afford to attract attention. His hardest job was keeping Archer patient and quiet.
When he did manage a second trip he was gratified to see that the spots he had “treated” were white and salty, like the bar in a battery. He gave them another dose and crawled out cautiously.
Archer, in his excitement, had supposed the whole thing would be a matter of a day or two and his impatience greatly disturbed Tom.
“Don’t you see, if I try to break the wires before they’re ready, we’ll be worse off than ever?” he said. “Leave it to me.”
At last there came a dark night when Tom announced in a whisper that he had used the last of the sal ammoniac.
“The wires are all white,” he said, “and you can scrape into them with your finger-nails. It’s good and dark to-night. If you want to back out you can. I won’t be sore about it. Only tell me again about the road to Dundgardt.”
“Didn’t I tell you I was with you strong as mustarrd? I don’t want to back out.”
A while after dark Tom went down to the bushes. It was understood that Archer should follow him, timing his coming according to the sentry’s rounds. Meanwhile Tom, not without some misgivings, bent the thick wire in one of the weakened spots and it broke. He paused and listened. Then he broke another strand, trembling lest even the breaking might cause a slight sound. The life had been eaten out of the wires and they parted easily.
By the time Archer arrived he had opened a way through the thick entanglement large enough to crawl through. His nerves were on edge as he wriggled far enough through to peer about in the dark outside.
“Anyway, your head has escaped,” said Archer.