“What on earth are you going to do?” whispered Mark.
“Show you,” chuckled Texas. “Look a-yere!”
He sprang up to the window and slipped the rope about one of the bars. Then the others saw! One man couldn’t pull out one of those iron strips; but the whole seven men together? Ah!
Quick as a flash they sprang forward to help him. Texas was very slow and methodical about it, exasperatingly so, for the jailer might peer in at any moment. Texas made the heavy rope fast; he tied knots in it for the plebes to take hold of, like a tug-of-war rope. Then he and Mark, as the strongest, braced their feet against the wall; the rest laid hold of the trailing end, and then—one, two, three—pull!—there came a terrific strain that made the bars of the window creak.
Four times they put all their strength into it. Then Texas, reaching up, whispered the joyful news that the iron was tearing loose from its fastenings in the stone. Once more they laid hold of the rope, once more swung back with all their might—and then suddenly the bar gave way!
It was as if a knife had cut the rope. The sudden release sent the unfortunate prisoners stumbling backward, tumbling with a crash into a heap in the corner.
A moment later they heard a loud shout outside, heard the door creak on its hinges, as it was flung open. It was the jailer, dashing into the room, revolver in hand.
“What does this mean!” he shouted. “Hold up your hands!”