“Glad it’s so dark,” said Jim. “Don’t you make a sound! Step carefully!”
Like so many young panthers, prowling in the woods, they went forward, a step at a time, single file, until they had cleared the corner of the main building and were in the broad, well kept grounds between that and the East River. Jim himself wanted to shout when he saw the water and, far beyond it, the glimmering midnight lamps of the city.
There, only a short distance from them, now, was the wharf at which the tug was moored and over the wooden-railed walk leading down to it was a bright gaslight burning.
“Down!” said Jim. “We must creep, now. Not on all fours.—Creep!”
So they did, and a watchman who was patrolling the entire front of the House did not catch a glimpse of them. Head foremost, they followed their leader, down the wooden-railed companion way to the wharf.
“There might have been a man on guard here,” said Jim, “but there isn’t.”
There was a light in the cabin of the tug and another in the engine room, but no living being was to be seen as they scurried up the bit of ladder that took them to the upper deck, the roof, of the tug, where the lifeboat lay.
“Quick, boys!” said Jim. “Over with her! There isn’t a minute to spare!—Don’t you see? There’s a stir in the House! We are missed, already!”
The lifeboat’s fastenings were good, but they were arranged for her easy launching. She was loose in a moment. Then there was a shove, a grating sound, a splash in the water,—but Jim’s exulting:
“Now, boys! Down we go! She’ll float. All we’ve got to do is to bail her out—” was followed by a loud shout from the front door of the main building and through all its corridors there were hurrying feet and rapidly given orders, for the officers had found five sleeping cells wide open and not a boy in one of them.