for the job. Keep away from that plate of nuts."
The squirrel had leaped to the table, but a blow from the hand of the
gamekeeper sent it flying to the floor. It ran about the place, poking
into corners, mounting the chairs, and always turning its little,
sparkling eyes towards the table where the nuts were piled temptingly.
Robert Lyons ate his dinner slowly, watching the squirrel all the time.
Every time it came on the table he threw it off. When it jumped on his
knee and poked its head upward towards his plate he allowed it to sniff
the dinner; but when it tried to steal a morsel he threw it to the
floor. This went on for quite a long time.
After dinner, Lyons rose and put the remains of his dinner and the
plate of nuts into a cupboard, taking one or two loose nuts in his
hand. With these he tempted the squirrel repeatedly, making it believe
that he was giving it one, and drawing away the prize when the animal
ventured to seize it.
There was something pathetic in the small eyes of the squirrel when
this was repeated several times. At last Lyons changed his method of
teasing the hungry thing. He tied a nut to a piece of string and let it
hang from the table. Every time the squirrel dashed for it he drew it
away. Finally he took the squirrel and put it into his capacious coat
pocket, lifted his new gun and cradle, and went out, locking the door
behind him.
He walked straight down the valley until he came to a spot opposite the
Wishing Chair. Near it was a large mound of earth which had been newly
dug up. The professor had been making excavations in search of fossils,
Lyons doing the digging while the savant searched.
Robert Lyons went straight to the tree from which he had fired the
shot in the morning. He fitted the cradle he had made into the fork,
hammered it down with a few nails, laid his rifle in the cradle, and
sighted it for the Wishing Chair.
Next he took a nut from his pocket, and tied it with a piece of twine
to the trigger of the gun so that it dangled in the desired position.
He then brought the squirrel out, and let it see the nut and play with
it; but when the little animal made any attempt to bite it, Lyons drew
it out of reach. He held the squirrel in his hands all this time.
After some time he descended the slope into the valley and climbed to
the Wishing Chair. He sat down in the stone seat. Once more he brought
the squirrel out of his pocket. But this time he did not tease it. He
set it on the ground and let it go. As soon as it bounded off he ran
after it. He knew where it was going.
The squirrel led him back to the spot where he had left his rifle. When
he arrived, the animal was seated on its haunches nibbling at a nut,
and the loop which dangled from the trigger of the gun was empty. Lyons
examined the rifle. The spring had been released. He tested the sights
without touching the weapon. The aim was truly laid for the Wishing
Chair.
He took another nut from his pocket, offering it to the brown squirrel.
It came timidly, but the gamekeeper did not tease any more. He let the
squirrel take the nut and eat it, as he held it in the crook of his
arm. When it was finished with the nut, he returned it to his pocket
and went back home. He left the rifle in the cradle fastened to the
tree-fork.
It had taken Robert Lyons a week to train the squirrel to run across
the valley from the Wishing Chair to the spot where the rifle was now
placed; and he had accomplished the training by the method which is the
first to break-in any animal--starvation. Who would ever suspect such a
death-trap?
Robert Lyons was up early next morning to meet his employer. The latter
came down to the cottage soon after breakfast, and was pleased to see
that the gamekeeper had every tool in readiness for their excavations.
They proceeded to the site at once.
Lyons did not talk as they marched ahead. The morning was dull, the sky
was heaped with cumulus clouds, the wind was rising.
"I'm afraid it isn't too promising for work, Lyons," said the professor
as they descended into the valley. "If it rains, we can return and
arrange some specimens indoors."
"We'll see," replied Lyons, grimly smiling to himself. "This is the
very weather for poachers."
"Do you think they'll be about?"
"Maybe. We'll see."
They reached the Wishing Chair on the top of the hill, and Lyons threw
down his tools. The professor sat down on the stone seat, as was his
habit, and drew out a handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his
face. It had been a stiff climb up the slope.
Lyons stepped behind the Wishing Chair, pretending to look at the
landscape beyond; but his hands fumbled about his waist. In a moment he
had uncoiled a length of thin rope, at the end of which was a running
noose. Before the innocent professor was aware, the noose was thrown
over his shoulders and the gamekeeper circled him twice, tying him to
the stone seat. Professor Roche was a prisoner.
He tried to rise, shouting to Lyons to loosen the rope, shouting
indignant orders, but Lyons did not heed his employer's words. His face
had become grim and dark, and his jaws were set as if clamped by iron
braces.
"If you howl, I'll gag you," he said viciously. "It's time we had a
talk. You're going to sign this first."
He shoved under the bewildered professor's nose the typewritten
declaration which the dealer had given him.
"What's all this? What's the meaning of this treatment, Lyons? I cannot
see what is written on the paper----"
"I'll read it to you."
Robert Lyons read it, slowly and distinctly. It was to the effect that
the Glory of Coram, being the property of Professor Roche, was being
offered for sale by that person, who was willing to take a certain sum
for it.
In vain the professor protested that this was robbery with violence;
the look in the grey eyes of the gamekeeper proved that both men were
in a new situation just then. Their past knowledge of each other was
gone for ever, and in its place was something terrible and menacing.
The professor sat very still, staring across the valley, trying to
convince himself that he was not dreaming. He found out soon enough.
Lyons hit him savagely in the face.
"Sign!" he cried.
"I haven't a pen."
"But I have. It is your own fountain one. I brought it on purpose."
"I missed it a week ago," murmured the professor thoughtfully. "Is it
only the Glory of Coram you wish, Lyons?"
"Is there anything more you'd like to give me?" sneered Lyons. "I've
had a few things out of the cases lately, but you haven't missed 'em."
"You have been stealing my goods?"
"And selling 'em, professor. When I sell the shell I'll have as much
money as I need."
"But if I sign this it is still possible that you will repent it. The
money will be paid into my bank----"
"It won't. It will be paid into my hand. I've made all that secure. It
will be paid by to-night."
"But you will be caught as soon as I give the alarm!"
"You will not give an alarm."
"No?"
"You will be dead. They'll find you to-morrow, maybe. Who is to prove
that poachers haven't been here to-day?"
A shiver passed through the professor's frame. He raised his head and
looked about for aid. All was bare, wild country, the nearest house
being his own home, over two miles off. Up the valley the rising wind
came steadily, increasing in volume every minute. The huge clouds above
were driving from the southwest. That meant rain.
"Do you intend to kill me?" he asked, after a pause. There was a hint
of the scholar's curiosity in his question.
"I do."
"Might I ask how?"
"Since it won't help you, I'll explain," said Lyons, "but you got to
sign that slip first."
The professor gravely took the pen and signed. His hand shook a little,
and the paper fluttered on his knee, but his face was serene as he
handed the sheet back to Lyons. The latter held the signature to the
wind until it was dry, then pushed it into his inside pocket. With his
eyes on Professor Roche, he brought the squirrel from his coat pocket
and held it aloft.
"This little fellow is going to kill you," he said. "He's the one who
is going to clear away every clue. Ain't you, Brownie?"
"This is very curious," said Professor Roche. "How is he going to do
it?"
"This way. Over the valley, in that clump of trees, is a rifle, loaded
and laid straight for your head. It is five hundred yards away. The
bullet in that rifle is a .303, which will kill at a much greater
distance. Hanging from the trigger is a nut. This squirrel is going
to snatch that nut. You won't have any pain, I assure you. I've had a
target often enough where your head is."
"Then you will hang," said the professor.
"I won't. The rifle will be buried in the valley within an hour of it
being fired. My own gun isn't a .303. Everybody in the house knows that
you and I are working at these excavations. Our trail shows we came
here. I have worked it all out."
The wind was coming in gusts, so that Lyons, who was standing to
leeward, had to bend forward to hear the professor's reply to his
boast. To his surprise, the professor merely wrinkled his brows and
bent his head. Lyons placed the squirrel on the ground ready to let him
free. Professor Roche's voice spoke.
"Have you laid the rifle true for me, Lyons?" he asked. "Are you sure?"
"True and straight, as I have laid it every day for a week. You can't
escape the bullet."
He threw the squirrel from him with a savage laugh.
"Say your prayers!" he cried. "Nothing can save you now!"
The professor's eyes were on the disappearing squirrel, now bounding
towards the clump of trees in which the gun-trap was hidden.
"Lyons," he said, "I have no prayers to say, but since you bound me in
this natural Wishing Chair I have been wishing--and thinking. I believe
my wish will come true. Come nearer to me. The wind makes it difficult
to talk."
Lyons moved from the windward to the leeward side of the chair. He
admired the gameness of the old professor.
"What is it you want to say?" he asked. "Hurry! The rifle will go off
any moment."
"One of the things I have studied, Lyons, is the question of velocity.
We have been having good weather of late----"
"What are you talking about?" roared Lyons. "Gone mad, eh?"
"Not quite, Lyons. Stand a little nearer and listen closely. I have had
my wish. The wind is very strong. Hark!"
From the clump of trees across the valley the crack of a rifle broke
out, and a tiny puff of smoke arose swiftly. Robert Lyons jumped back
from the Wishing Chair, but as he leapt something smote him in the
chest and stretched him unconscious on the ground.
Professor Roche was able to undo the fastenings that bound him, and
he went for the police, who took Lyons to hospital. He has just been
tried, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. It was indeed a wonder
he was not killed by the bullet he intended for the professor.
You see, the wind always takes a bullet off the target at five hundred
yards' range. Three feet at that distance is an average wind allowance.
Robert Lyons had forgotten the rising wind.
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE EIGHTH CELL
As the Governor finished his seventh story, the visitor shrugged his
shoulders and glanced at the window, where the fog was swirling up
against the glass.
"I hope you do not find it too cold," said the Governor politely.
"Shall I turn up the gas stove to its full capacity? It is rather a
large stove, but we can regulate it----"
"I find it warm enough, thank you," interrupted the visitor. "I was
merely taking note that the fog is becoming denser than ever."
"Naturally," agreed the Governor, "you are interested in the fog, for
reasons we shall not discuss; and mention of fog reminds me that in my
eighth cell is one who relied on just a similar density of atmosphere
to escape from this very prison. He has just been sentenced to an
additional term for that escapade."
"Then you admit that it is possible to escape from your prison?"
inquired the visitor quickly, eager to make a point.
"It is possible to do almost anything, but every action has its
consequences. We seldom escape the consequences after we have committed
the act. If a prisoner behaves himself and gives the impression that
he is willing to accept the punishment which the law has given him,
we do not make his punishment more of a torture than we can help. In
other words, we give prisoners some slight benefits, some privileges.
These help to mould their characters. But Harry Sarlon, I am afraid,
took advantage of the privileges given him. As there is an element of a
certain kind of humour in his case I am sure you will be interested to
hear of his case. The fog makes it definitely apposite."
The Governor then proceeded:
* * * * *
Harry Sarlon had broken out of prison quite easily. He stood bracing
himself against the rough wall of the archway, knowing that he was
being sought, knowing that the warders were on his trail.
At his feet were a paint-pot and two brushes, the materials with which
he had been working when he escaped. His convict dress was hidden by
a loose smock which, though prison property, was a disguise for his
prison clothes. In his right hand he held a heavy stone which he had
picked up from the ground.
The fog swirled past him, thick and heavy; so thick that he could not
see objects a few yards away. It was because of the fog that he had
escaped.
The scrape of a foot on the ground sounded near his hiding-place. A
man's form appeared in the strange gloom, woolly and indistinct. A
lantern, blurred and ruddy-yellow, swung slowly to and fro.
"Sarlon, you had better surrender if you are there! You can't get away!"
The voice was a challenge, besides being an order. It was the voice of
Warder Tully, the man of all his guards whom Sarlon hated and feared
most.
For just one moment Sarlon hesitated. He felt that the warder was in
the act of sounding his whistle. He heard the barking of a dog some
distance off. The lantern moved towards him. Then Sarlon leaped.
The warder had no chance, for Sarlon was upon him like a panther. He
bore Tully to the ground, hitting him with the stone. Tully was knocked
unconscious and lay still.
It is possible, with imagination, to appreciate the wild, passionate
desire for freedom that urged the convict to attack. The discipline and
strict regulations of a place of detention arouse, in some natures,
a ferocity against restraint which at times becomes ungovernable.
There are men in prisons who can never be trusted beyond the ordinary
routine. But Sarlon had seen to it that he was not regarded as of that
type. He had deliberately suppressed his rebellion in order to make his
escape. Therefore it was all the harder for him to admit defeat when
challenged at that moment. He was in the full flush of belief in his
ability to escape from Mincester gaol.
From the beginning of his term he had stifled his resentment, his
hatred of prison and gaolers. He had done this to outwit them. This
shows that he was a man of great self-control, yet he could not control
his criminal leanings; a strange paradox. He could control himself in
order to retaliate in time; there was something in him of the nature of
the cat tribe. A tiger can lie still, waiting to catch its prey. Caged,
it cannot keep passive.
Burglar, crook, law-breaker, he had run the whole gamut of crime with
the exception of the capital charge. And now that he had visited his
vengeance on Warder Tully he was aware that he must run.
By trade Sarlon was a house painter. He had attained to the position
of a first-class convict because of his good behaviour. He had given
no trouble at all, and had seemed to accept his punishment as the
inevitable result of his lawless acts. As a result of this good
behaviour and in an endeavour to reclaim him as a useful member of the
community, he had been allowed to use his trade abilities. He had, in
short, with another man, been put to the job of painting the windows
of some outbuildings. This suited him very well. From the top of his
ladder he had a view of the world beyond the prison. There is an old
parish church, as you may have noticed, not very far off, on the
steeple of which workmen were then engaged in repairs. The steeple was
shored up by beams that slanted from the ground almost to the top; and,
at stages, scaffolding framed the square tower in regular platforms.
Sarlon knew that these workmen were engaged in tearing out the inside
of the tower preparatory to re-buttressing it. This work was but one of
the instances where local authorities were attempting to preserve the
relics of England for future generations.
Sarlon had seen this work, and the sight helped him to make his plans.
Only one thing was needed to obscure his escape. That one thing was
night--or fog. He could not escape during the night, so he hoped for
fog. There is a saying that the Devil looks after his own. The fog came.
The fog had swept down from the north suddenly, and, from the top of
his ladder, Sarlon had watched it coming. This district is liable to
get fogs at certain times of the year, as is well known. When the
foremost fringe of the mist touched the prison wall and floated into
the yard, the warders sounded the signal to stop work. Sarlon at first
pretended not to hear; then, when he could keep up the pretence no
longer without arousing suspicion, he acted as slowly as possible.
He came down the ladder, leaving his paint-pot on a window-ledge. He
had to go back for it. This time he left a brush on the window-sill. He
had to climb again for the brush. He was playing for time. The warders
urged him to hurry, all unsuspecting his motive.
By this time all was indistinct and shadowy in the yard, and the fog
was getting thicker every minute. When he descended the second time
everything was in his favour. The yard was dense with mist. The fog
had come quickly, as fogs generally come in marshy districts. Sarlon
heard the other convicts being marshalled, though he could no longer
see them. He saw a warder waiting for him at the foot of the ladder.
With a quick movement he kicked the warder in the chest, sending him
sprawling; then he took the ladder in his muscular hands, rushed across
the yard with it, flung it against the wall and swarmed to the top.
He was astride the wall when the warder he had knocked down appeared
below him. Sarlon kicked the ladder away and heard the warder's cry of
alarm as he fell. Sarlon jumped to the other side of the wall. He was
outside the prison.
His paint-pot, which was fastened to the top rung of the ladder by a
hook, had fallen beside him. He picked it up as he started his flight.
His paint-brushes were in his pocket. Why did Harry Sarlon take the
paint-pot and his paint-brushes with him? All part of his scheme. If he
met any civilians he could easily pretend that he was merely a painter
on his way home. He threw away his prison cap. Who was to know that a
convict had been using paints? By the time the circumstances of his
flight were known to the public he reckoned he would be safe.
He ran through the fog until he reached the canal, which was to be his
guide-rope. It would lead him towards the centre of the city and the
place where he wanted to hide. He waded into the cold, muddy water
which reached to his waist, and as he waded he held his smock high so
that it would not be soaked, for it was his disguise. Climbing back to
the bank, he ran on until he reached the rear of the parish church. He
scaled the wall of the cemetery and was crawling among the tombstones
when he heard a sound and saw a lantern moving towards him. Someone was
on his trail.
Sarlon crouched behind a tombstone and waited. He saw the lantern
pass in the fog and disappear. He wondered, in a moment of terrific
concentration, if all his efforts were to be frustrated. The minutes
passed. From somewhere to the right he heard another sound that set his
teeth on edge. This was the baying of a hound.
Sarlon knew where the dog was at that moment, and he knew the dog was
on his track. Two dogs are kept in this prison, in a yard shut off from
the sight of every inmate; but every prisoner knows that these dogs are
kept should an escape be made. I ought to say the idea of the dogs was
mine.
Every day the dogs are exercised by the warders; and it was to throw
the dogs off the scent that Sarlon had entered the canal. He argued
that if he threw them off until he was deep in the city he would be
safe. But, on the other hand, there was the fact that the very scent
the dogs were following was his disguise. The dogs were following the
smell of the paint which clung to his boots, his smock, his clothes.
He dared not remain behind the tombstone, so he crept out and found the
shelter of the archway. It was when he was here that the lantern came
out of the mist again and the voice of Tully challenged him. There was
nothing left for Sarlon except to surrender or attack. He clamoured for
liberty; so he attacked. The dogs were not with Tully.
Sarlon found some satisfaction in attacking Tully. The latter was the
one warder on the staff who could not be bluffed or deceived. He was
the warder who had tried to prevent Sarlon from escaping by the ladder.
He had rushed out, before the dogs had been loosed, to search on his
own. Finding that the dogs took the road to the canal, Tully had struck
away from it.
It was like Tully to argue that Sarlon had not crossed the canal and
made for the open country, because Tully was the clearest-headed
warder of the staff, the most relentless in pursuit as he was the
most suspicious in his daily dealings with prisoners. No convict ever
asked a favour, or made a request, which Tully did not suspect; he had
acquired the habit of disbelieving every plea, every complaint! he was
always on the alert to suspect excuses to evade rules. His duty became
a sort of perpetual query mark. He was the most feared, as well as the
most hated, warder.
He was as remorseless as iron and as merciless as logic. If a prisoner
went sick he treated it as a feigned ruse until he saw the man
collapse. He even regarded the doctor's examinations of prisoners
as too gentle and as erring on the side of leniency. He grudged the
hospital diet which patients were given. To his mind a convict was
no longer a man but a number--a number which still constantly strove
to evade punishment. There was no pity in Tully. He was incapable of
compassion. But he believed he was just. His duties were, to him,
part of a large organisation for the protection of organised society.
"Prisoners," he once said to a Commission which sat to gather evidence
on crime and criminals, "are the weeds in God's garden. Prison is the
refuse heap of that garden." He took his work seriously, as became a
grave and unimaginative nature.
Harry Sarlon in many ways justified Tully's words. His idea of freedom
was to do as he liked--selfish to the core--without any sense of shame.
His idea of law was that which restricted his raids on civilisation.
But prison had shown him that to do as he liked he had to blind the
law and hoodwink it when he could. To escape from prison was, to
him, a duty to himself, any means justifying the end. To trick the
authorities, to lie to them, to deceive them, was merely his way of
"getting his own back." Rules and restrictions were a challenge to him.
He had no sense of honour. He would have killed Tully with as little
compunction as he would have told a lie or trod on a worm.
A mutual mistrust and antagonism had always existed between the two
when they came into contact. It was the clash of opposites.
As he stood in the archway looking at the fallen man, Harry Sarlon,
thinking he had killed Tully, was glad Tully was out of his way; but
the baying of a dog came to his ears, and he knew that he must act
quickly. It was only a matter of time before the dog, or dogs, found
his trail again. Tully, he was aware, had taken a short cut ahead, and
the dogs would come too. Quick as thought, Sarlon stripped off his
smock and threw it beside his paint-pot and brushes. He had no use for
these things now.
He took off his prison clothes also and left them in a heap beside his
smock. He stripped the uniform off the warder, who had been so battered
by the stone that he had every appearance of being dead, and found to
his delight that there was some money in the warder's pockets.
He extinguished the lantern, clapped the warder's cap on his head, and,
seizing the warder by the heels, dragged him into the cemetery over the
heaps of earth. He knew where he was going and what he intended to do.