Presently her little brown hand came out at my feet, there being sufficient space between the floor and wood to pass it through. I stooped and took it in mine, and found it a hot, moist little hand, with a pulse beating very fast.
“Poor child!” I said, “I will pour some water in a plate and pass it to you under the door.”
“Oh, you are bad to insult me!” she cried. “What, am I a cat to drink water from a plate? I could cry my eyes out”; here followed sob-like sounds. “Besides,” she suddenly resumed, “it is fresh air, not water, I require. I am suffocated, I cannot breathe. Oh, dear friend, save me from fainting. Force back the door till the bolt slips out.”
“No, no, Cleta, it cannot be done.”
“What, with your strength! I could almost do it myself with my poor little hands. Open, open, open, before I faint.”
She had evidently sunk down on the floor sobbing, after making that practical suggestion; and, casting about for burglarious implements to aid me, I found the spit and a wedge-shaped piece of hard wood. These I inserted just above and below the lock, and, forcing back the door on its frame, I soon had the satisfaction of seeing the bolt slip from the catch.
Out sprang Cleta, flushed, tearful, her hair all in disorder, but laughing gleefully at having regained her liberty.
“Oh, dear friend, I thought you were going to leave me!” she cried. “How agitated I am—feel how my heart beats. Never mind, I can now pay that wretch out. Is not revenge sweet, sweet, sweet?”
“Now, Cleta,” I said, “take three mouthfuls of fresh air and a drink of water, then let me lock you in again.”
She laughed mockingly, and shook her hair like a wild young colt.