Part 6 (1/2)

”I don't know. A signal, maybe. They're searching this place for us, I guess. Don't talk.”

Archer took comfort from Tom's calmness, and for half an hour more they waited, silent and apprehensive. But nothing more happened, the solemn stillness of the countryside reigned without, and as the time pa.s.sed their fear of pursuit and capture gave way to cold terror at the thought of being locked in this black, stifling vault to die.

What had happened? What did that shot mean, and where was it? Why did Florette not come? Who had walked across the plank roof of that musty prison? The fact that they could only guess at the time increased their dread and made their dreadful predicament the harder to bear. Moreover, the air was stale and insufficient and their heads began to ache cruelly.

”We can't stand it in here much longer,” Tom confessed, after what seemed a long period of waiting. ”Pretty soon one of us will be all in and then it'll be harder for the other. We've got to get out, no matter what.”

”Therre may be a Gerrman soldierr within ten feet of us now,” Archer said. ”They'rre probably around in this vineyarrd _somewherre_, anyway.

If we tried to forrce it open they'd hearr us.”

”We couldn't force it, anyway,” Tom said.

”My head's pounding like a hammerr,” said Archer after a few minutes more of silence.

”Hold some of that damp straw to it.--How many matches did she give you?”

”'Bout a dozen or so.”

”Wish I had a knife.--Have you got that piece of wire yet?”

”Surre I have,” said Archer, hauling from his pocket about five inches of barbed wire--the treasured memento of his escape from the Hun prison camp. ”You laughed at me for always gettin' sooveneerrs; now you see---- What you want it for?”

”Sh-h. How many barbs has it?” asked Tom in a cautious whisper.

”Three.”

”Let's have it; give me a couple o' matches, too.”

Holding a lighted match under the place where he thought the iron padlock band must be, he scrutinized the under side of the door for any sign of it.

”I thought maybe the ends of the screws would show through,” he said.

”What's the idea?” Archer asked. ”Gee, but my head's poundin'.”

”If that hasp just fell over the padlock eye,” Tom whispered, ”and didn't fit in like it ought to, maybe if I could bore a hole right under it I could push it up. Don't get scared,” he added impa.s.sively. ”There's another way, too; but it's a lot of work and it would make a noise. We'd just have to settle down and take turns and dig through with the wire barbs. I wish we had more matches. Don't get rattled, now. I know we're in a d.i.c.kens of a hole----”

”You said something,” observed Archer.

”I didn't mean it for a joke,” said Tom soberly.

”This has got the trenches beat a mile,” Archer said, somewhat encouraged by Tom's calmness and resourcefulness.

Striking another match, Tom examined more carefully the area of planking just in the middle of the side where he knew the hasp must be. He determined the exact center as nearly as he could. While doing this he dug his fingernails under a large splinter in the old planking and pulled it loose. Archer could not see what he was doing, and something deterred him from bothering his companion with questions.

For a while Tom breathed heavily on the splintered fragment. Then he tore one end of it until it was in shreds.

”Let's have another match.”

Igniting the shredded end, he blew it deftly until the solid wood was aflame, and by the light of it he could see that Archer was ghastly pale and almost on the point of collapse. Their dank, unwholesome refuge seemed the more dreadful for the light.