"Ain't water he wants," the amused guard observed. "The blighter's playin' for a good chew of merclite!"[1]
"I ain't as bad as I'm makin' out," Sorko whispered. "Got to do it to tell you this, 'cause you was square with me. Gore is fixin' to have a mut'ny. Kill captain, kill all these dubs here — this guy of yourn, too. He wants to take you for his—" the weazened little face twisted in unwonted shy delicacy—"take you for him, pretty lady. I don't want him to. I'm not — a—bad feller—"
"What the hell, Sorko!" the puzzled guard exclaimed over the delay. "You bandy-legged rat, get up there, or I'll give you a jolt."
Lenore looked up, indignant.
"You heartless wretch! Would you let this man—"
"Comin'!" Sorko scrambling to his feet, shuffling to the table, where he retrieved his bowl. Quirl and Lenore watched his painful progress up the ladder, until at last he disappeared into the passage.
"Quirl," she murmured, as her hand sought his, "take this."
He felt a small bit of metal, and looking at it cautiously, saw that he had a rough key, filed out of a piece of flat metal.
"The key to that hoop around your waist. He copied it from the one the captain has, I suppose."
H is hopes high all at once, Quirl sought the compact little lock in the small of his back. It took a long time to get the key in, and then it would not turn. It had been unskillfully made, and was probably not a true reproduction. Nevertheless, by constant effort, he succeeded at last in turning it, and was rewarded by hearing a faint click. He tested the hoop, felt it slip, and knew that at any time he chose he could free himself.