“That’s rotten soon,” said Johnny. “I don’t think I’ll stay to see it.”
“I guess you will,” said the stranger.
There seemed nothing more to be said, so the two new-found friends lay there in silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts. Johnny’s were mostly of Mazie and of the thousands of starving children they had hoped to aid.
“It’s sure rotten luck,” he ejaculated at last.
Just at that moment the great iron gate was heard to creak on its hinges. Other wretches were being pitched inside to await their doom.
The door was so deeply set in the wall that nothing could be seen of the newly arrived prisoners.
As Johnny lay wondering what they were like, he heard a shrill whisper:
“Johnny! Johnny Thompson!”
“Here!” he whispered back.
There were sounds of a person crawling toward him, the curse of a Russian who had been disturbed in what was probably his last sleep; then Johnny’s lips uttered a low exclamation. He had caught the dull gleam of a golden ball of fire.