Martin Priest had always been interested in chemical experiments, to find the best explosive for use with bombs to be dropped from aeroplanes; one lighter and safer than any other. Hike had worked with him, at Monterey, making tiny mixtures of strong chemicals, and he had a little case of chemicals, that was still with him. In it was a small vial of strong nitric acid—which eats through rope, rotting it; and which turns the fingers strangely orange.
He made loud noises of sleepiness, deliberately getting Bat to look at him, from the door. He curled up, as though for more comfortable slumber. As he twisted about awkwardly, easing the strain of the bonds, he caught the case of chemicals from his pocket, pulled out the nitric acid bottle, shoved the case under him. When he finally lay still, his bound ankles were near the hand that was tightly closed over the vial.
Very cautiously, not moving an inch a minute, he drew out the stopper of the little bottle, and let the liquid drop on the bonds between his hands; then on the rope between his ankles. He took every care to keep the acid from falling on his flesh and his clothes. The task was a strain. He had to clamp his jaws together. But he kept at it.
Now, all he had to do was to wait, and the rope would soon be so rotted that a slight pull would separate ankle from ankle, and wrist from wrist. He waited.
The spot in his chest where tall Snafflin had kicked him was aching. That gave him an idea. No; he wouldn’t attack Bat. Bat wasn’t so bad, even if he had first enticed him away. He would wait, till the other took his turn as guard, and then try to make it interesting for him.
He did not worry; he held himself in. He heard Bat call, “Hey you, Pete Snafflin. Wake up. Two o’clock. Get up, will you? Your turn on guard.”
So then, reflected Hike, the name of the tall and vicious rascal was Mr. Peter Snafflin, and the time was two of the morning. Well, that didn’t make much difference to him! He’d just as soon bash the head of Mr. Snafflin if his name were O’Flannagan or Moskowski or Li Hung Chang; and as soon do it at noon as at two A. M.
So he kept on talking to himself. Poodle had taught him that trick of holding cheerful conversations with himself; and he kept at it only the more because he wanted to be calm while he waited to find out what his new guard would do.
Bat went out, Snafflin strolled in, rolling another of his cigarettes. The lantern cast his lean cruel shadow on the rough walls. He came up, deliberately stooped and slapped Hike’s cheek. Hike pretended to awake with a start, then—while Snafflin watched him—to groan, and turn over a bit to sleep again. As he turned over, he felt the rotted bonds give a little.
Snafflin wandered to the doorstep, rolled up a coat, and lay stretched out into the darkness. Then he swore viciously (Hike watching him all the while, oh, so closely!) and, for greater comfort, stuck his coat-pillow on the ground just in front of the door. His rifle was left carelessly beside him.