Yes, the blade was broken quite through, and remained sticking between
the pieces of wood. The haft came away in my hand; and as I passed my
thumb over the end of it, I could perceive that the blade had snapped
off close to the end of the back-spring, so that not even the tenth of
an inch of it was left in the handle.
I cannot describe the chagrin which this incident caused me. I at once
recognised it as a misfortune of the very gravest kind, for without the
knife what could I do?
Without it I was, as might be said, _unarmed and helpless_. I could
make no further progress with my tunnel; I should have to abandon the
enterprise so lately conceived, and upon which I had built such hopes of
success; in other words, I might now renounce my design of proceeding
farther, and resign myself to the miserable fate that once more stared
me in the face.
There was something awful in this reaction of my spirits. It was
painful in the extreme. The very suddenness of the change rendered the
shock more acute. But the moment before, I was full of confidence,
making fair progress in my enterprise, and cheered with partial success.
This unexpected misfortune had interrupted all, and plunged me back
again into the gloomy gulf of despair.
For a long while I remained wavering and undecided. I could not make up
my mind to do anything. What could I do? I could not continue my work:
I had no tool to work with!
My mind seemed to wander. Several times I passed my thumb along the
handle of my knife, till it rested upon the short stump of the broken
blade, or rather upon the neck, for the blade was all gone. I did this
in a sort of mechanical way, to assure myself that it was really broken
off; for so sudden had been the misfortune, that I could yet hardly
believe in its reality. In truth, it had quite bewildered my senses,
and in this state they remained for several minutes.
When the first shock was over, my self-possession slowly and gradually
returned. Assured at length of the sad reality, and knowing the worst,
I began to reflect whether something might not still be done with the
broken weapon.
The words of a great poet, which I had heard at school, came into my
mind: "_Men better do their broken weapons use, than their bare hands_;"
and the suggestion that this wise saying afforded, I now took to myself.
It occurred to me, then, to examine the blade. The haft I held in my
hand, but the blade still remained in the angle of the box, where it had
broken off.
I drew it out, and passed my finger over it. It was still entire, and
as much of a blade as ever; but, alas! without the handle, what use
could I make of it?
I grasped it round the thick end, and made trial whether I could still
cut with it. It was some satisfaction to find that I could--a little.
The blade was a good long one, and this was a fortunate circumstance.
By wrapping a piece of rag around the thick end, I might yet make it
available; though, of course, any cutting I might hereafter do with it,
would be a slow and painful operation.
The idea of setting the blade in the haft again was out of the question.
It is true I entertained it at first, but I soon discovered a
difficulty not to be got over; and that was the removal of the
back-spring.
Could I only have got this out of the way, the haft would still have
served for a handle. I could easily have inserted the broken end of the
blade between the scales; and as I had plenty of good string, I might
have tied it firmly there. But I had nothing to draw the well-riveted
nail, and the back-spring resisted all my efforts to detach it.
The haft, therefore, was of no more use than an ordinary piece of
stick--indeed, not so much, for just then it occurred to me that a piece
of stick might serve my purpose better. Out of a proper piece, I might
be able to make some sort of a handle that would serve to hold the
blade, so that I might still cut with it.
The encouragement which this idea gave me, once more roused my mind to
new activity, and I set to thinking how I might make a new haft for the
broken blade.
Necessity sharpened my ingenuity; and I was not long in conceiving my
design, nor a great while either about the execution of it; for in about
an hour's time I held in my hand a knife with a complete handle. It was
but a rude one at best; but I felt satisfied it would serve my purpose
nearly as well as that which I had lost; and this belief once more
restored me to confidence and cheerfulness.
The new haft I had made in the following fashion:--Having procured a
piece of wood from one of the thick boards, I first whittled it to the
proper shape and size. This I was enabled to do with the blade, which,
although without a handle, served well enough for light work like that.
I then contrived to make a cleft in the stick, to the depth of two
inches from its end; and into this cleft I inserted the broken end of
the blade. To lap this tightly with a string, was my next idea; but I
perceived at once that this would not do. The string would be stretched
by the action of the blade, and the latter would soon get loose. If the
sharp edge only came against the twine, while the blade was being worked
backwards and forwards, it would instantly sever it, and then the blade
would pull out, perhaps drop down among the boxes, and so get lost.
Such an accident would be fatal to my prospects; and, if possible, I
must not risk it.
What could I find that would fasten the blade more securely in the
cleft? If I could have obtained a yard or two of wire, it would have
been just the thing; but there was no wire near me. What! thought I, no
wire near me? The piano! the strings! surely _they_ are of wire?
Once more the piano became the object of my attention; and if I could at
that moment have reached the inside of it, I should certainly have
robbed it of one of its strings. But, then, to get at the string?--that
was a difficulty I had not thought of, but which the next moment came up
before me. Of course, with my knife in its present condition, to cut my
way into the piano would be a sheer impossibility, and I was forced to
abandon the idea.
But in that instant I thought of another expedient--I thought of the
iron hooping, of which there was plenty within my reach. The very
thing. A piece of this would serve my purpose equally as well as wire.
It was thin and pliable, and one or two turns of it around the haft, by
the neck of the blade, would hold the latter in its place admirably, and
prevent it from budging either backwards or forwards. A string, lapped
tightly over all, would keep the hoop from getting loose, and thus I
should have a complete handle.
No sooner thought of than done. The piece of hoop was at once searched
for and found. It was neatly wound round the neck of the blade and
haft; and having been firmly tied with strong twine, I found myself once
more in possession of a knife. The blade was of course much shorter
than before, but I believed it would still be long enough for cutting
through the thickest planks I should encounter; and with this belief I
felt satisfied.
The different operations I have detailed must have occupied me for
twenty hours at least. I was worn and wearied, and should have sought
rest much sooner; but after the breaking of the blade, I could not think
of resting. It would have been of no use attempting to sleep: my misery
would have kept me awake.
The new knife, however, had restored my confidence; and I could no
longer resist the desire to take that repose which, both in mind and
body, I so much stood in need of.
I need hardly add that hunger compelled me to resort once more to my
miserable larder; but, strange as it may appear to you--and as it does
now to me--I felt no hardship in the kind of diet; but, on the contrary,
ate my _rat-supper_ with as much relish as I should now do the choicest
of dishes!