Johnny, knowing that Pant was speaking of the gold he had taken from Mine No. 3 and had sledded nearly three thousand miles to Vladivostok at risk of his life, could only grip his hand and swallow hard.
“Gee!” said Pant, when Johnny had finished his story. “We’ll have to find that Mazie of yours, and quick. But we’ve got to get out of here first.”
He was ready with his plans after a moment’s thought. Prisoners were being brought in every ten or fifteen minutes. There were no lights in the prison and the military police carried none. The place was pitch dark. He did not say that he could see well enough, but, from past experiences, Johnny knew that he could. They would creep close to the iron gate and, when it was opened to admit others, they would crawl out on hands and knees.
“And if luck’s bad, then this,” said Pant, slipping a small dagger into Johnny’s hand.
“You got one, too?”
“Sure.”
“All right.”
They crept close to the gate and waited. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes of dreadful silence went by with never an approaching footstep. Johnny’s heart beat painfully. What if the last poor victim had been brought to await his doom? Dawn would be breaking, and then the firing squad. Cold perspiration beaded his forehead.
But hold! there came again the shuffle of feet. A lone prisoner was being brought in.
“Now!” came in a faint whisper. A steady hand gripped his arm. He felt himself led forward. A foot scraped his knee. It was the incoming prisoner. He uttered no sound.