Once, when Steve Conry came to set the thongs on our wrists preparatory to a turn outside, Ray showed a pair of sore wrists—he had contrived the marks—and begged that he would not pull the strings so tight as to crucify him that way. The man was impressed, and the thongs were set a bit looser.
When the guard was gone, Ray tugged for a moment, and—"It's easy," he said, and he held up his hand. His hands were thin, a little easing of the knot, and he slipped them out of the thongs. But we heard the guard coming, and he slipped his hands back into his bonds again.
"They're a long time away," grumbled Conry. "I'm gettin' tired o' this."
"Where are they gone?" said Ray.
"They've gone to have a look at the ships—your friends' an' the other one," he said. "There's too much o' this puttin' things on—"
His grumbling was cut short. There occurred some kind of concussion, that shook the earth. Particles fell from the roof of the cave to the floor.
"An earthquake!" shouted Ray.
Conry jumped erect. And the next moment he was scrambling out through the hole.
"Now, Ray!" I said.
Ray had his hands out. He rolled to the entrance, got up to the knife. In a half minute both of us were free of our bonds. I grasped a box of matches, then blew out the lantern light.