My attention had been attracted toward the door, with the result that I fancied it would repay me for a close examination.
So, after disposing of the last remnant of my supper, bestowed through the courtesy of the alcalde—bless his benevolent heart—I set to work examining that same door.
Here I squandered three more of my precious matches, but the investment paid me—indeed, I almost came to worship at the shrine of those little wooden, brimstone-tipped gods; never had I dreamed they could appear so valuable, and more than once I vowed that, freed from this trouble, I meant to never suffer for lack of a sufficiency again, if I had to start a factory or even buy up the whole iniquitous match trust.
The door was a great big sham, a hollow mockery; apparently it was a massive affair, capable of resisting a battering ram; but in reality time had played such havoc with the oak, aided and abetted by some mysterious boring worm, that it was the easiest thing in the world for me to bury the blade of my pocketknife in its fiber.
This was joy indeed; my old run of luck had not yet reached the end of its tether, and I rather guessed I was still in the game.
And the way I slashed into that humbug of a door was a caution; I made the rotten stuff fairly fly in a shower, so that twice I had to stop my work and indulge in a sneezing spell on account of the particles of wood dust in the air.
Never mind, the hole grew apace and would speedily be large enough to accommodate the prisoner who yearned to try his wings.
Then my rising hopes received a rude shock, for upon the stone flagging of the corridor I heard the distinct sound of approaching footsteps.
A curse upon that meddling, black-muzzled jailor.