There was no moon that night, and the evening was cloudy, making a
favorable condition of affairs for the prisoners contemplating an escape.
As soon as the darkness was dense enough to conceal their movements from
the guard, the work of tunneling began.
It was a tedious business, as they had none of the proper tools, and only
one or two could work at a time at the digging and cutting away of the
stone; but they relieved each other frequently at that, while those on the
outside carried away in their coats or whatever came to hand, the earth
and fragments of stone dislodged, and spread them over the marshy ground
near the creek.
Duncan, returning from one of these trips, spoke in an undertone to Harold
Allison, who with a rude file made of a broken knife-blade, was patiently
endeavoring to free himself from his shackles.
"Jackson is dead. I half stumbled over a corpse in the dark, when a man
close by (the same one that told us this afternoon who the fellow was--I
recognized the voice) said, 'He's just breathed his last, poor wretch!
died with a curse on his lips.' 'Who is he?' I asked; and he answered,
'Tom Jackson was one of his names.'"
"Gone!" said Harold, "and with all his sins upon his head."
"Yes; it's awful! Here, let me work that for awhile.
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