Incredible as it may seem, he actually held out all that day, and all of the night that followed. He suffered untold pain, and the torments of hunger, thirst and cold. Morning dawned, and breakfast preparations echoed through the cabin. The closet door was opened a slight crack, and Bogle’s voice asked.
“Have you had enough, youngster?”
“Yes,” muttered Brick, sullenly.
“Will you write those letters?”
“Yes,” in a reluctant tone.
The door opened wide, and Brick was pulled out into the warmth and comfort of the room.
The youth’s bonds were cut, and his stiffened limbs were rubbed with brandy. Then he was seated at the table, and given a hot breakfast. Raikes saw that he wanted for nothing, and even Bogle appeared to be in a rare good humor.
By the time the dishes were cleared away, Brick felt in good shape physically. But his sober and downcast face showed the keen humiliation of his defeat. When writing materials were brought out, he took pen and paper, and wrote at Bogle’s dictation. Occasionally his eyes flashed, or his nostrils quivered. But not a word passed his lips. Bogle read the two letters in approving silence. Then he handed them to Raikes, who put them in his breast pocket.
The matter was not again referred to. The day wore monotonously on. Brick sat in a corner most of the time, looking miserable and unhappy. His companions paid no attention to him, but whispered a good deal among themselves.
The weather had moderated, and rain had fallen during the night. About midday the sky cleared, and a strong wind sprang up. It grew bitterly cold out of doors, and a blazing fire was scarcely sufficient to keep the cabin comfortable. This seemed to give great satisfaction to Raikes and Bogle. Brick overheard a few low remarks, such as “start at daybreak,” “hard crust on the snow,” “no danger of discovery.”