his bench, taking some work to the saw; between the two benches, the Butcher and another convict were varnishing a piece of furniture that had just been completed.
Once more, Varge's eyes dropped to his work.
When what was ready? Had Blackie Lunn answered that question—or was it, the common rumour as a basis, but a vagary of the old man's mind? Was it really here, that sewer—somewhere at hand—were Twisty Connors and his few choice spirits the possessors of the secret, as Blackie Lunn so evidently believed?
The scene of a week ago lived again before Varge in its every detail. The old man sidling, as he believed unobserved, to his, Varge's, bench and plucking with trembling, eager fingers at his sleeve, the hoarse, dull, quavering whisper—Blackie, like the rest of the outsiders, had believed him to be one with Twisty Connors, with the Butcher and the rest.
"You'll let me in on it, won't you?" Blackie had pleaded feverishly. "You'll let an old man in on it, won't you? For God's sake don't say no! You ain't been here long enough to have your heart all dried up. Twisty says I ain't got the sand. You speak to him—you tell him I have. I have got sand. Oh, for God's sake let me in on it—it's killing me in here—I got to get out or I'll die. I know what's going on. The tunnel's done and they're at the brick now and—"
That had been all. Wenger's sneering face had come between them.
"Tunnel, eh?" the brute had snarled viciously. "What's this about a tunnel, you—"
The words had ended in a piteous scream, as Wenger
