All I found reason to complain of was the limited quantity; they forgot that a man of leisure, who has nothing to employ his time, and to whom the hours drag unmercifully develops an enormous capacity for devouring food.
This thing began to grow monotonous.
The restless Yankee spirit aroused within me.
Since the mountain showed no inclination to come to Mahomet, it was evident that he must make a virtue of necessity and go to the mountain.
In other words, I resolved to see what chances there might be for escape.
Apparently the case was hopeless enough, with those impregnable walls about me; but Nature had endowed me with an optimistic spirit, and besides, I had read of many wonderful escapes—that of Monte Cristo, for instance, and the Union prisoners who left old Libby prison by means of tunnels and a chimney.
I had my knife still.
With this I managed to shave off numerous small pieces from the rude cot—they might not be perfectly dry, but if properly arranged would undoubtedly burn.
When illumination was thus brought about the old dungeon looked at least a bit more cheery.
I must confess, however, that the chances for escape did not seem to improve; those walls might as well have been adamant so far as my ability to break through went.