THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
part of the day. The Ajax was already on its way down to the Red Sea.
He sidled toward the water-jar, wondering if he could get a drink without wasting the precious fluid. His tongue was hot with fever again. Chance directed his gaze toward the spike in the pillar, and this time an idea was born. If he could manage to get his wrists on the level with that spike. …
It was an arduous task. After half an hour spent in wriggling and twisting and balancing, he gained his feet. Then he leaned toward the spike and began carefully to work the knot against it.
An hour later he kicked the rope off his feet. He knew better than to rush to the window immediately. He needed life in his tingling legs and arms. Yet, he hadn't much time. The boy or his elders might now return at any moment. He drank deeply, ate some bread, took out his handkerchief (which the boy had ignored for lack of understanding), and bathed the cut. Despite this refreshment, he felt weak and dizzy.
He then proceeded to place the chute against the window-ledge, crawled up with infinite labor, and wormed himself through. As he rose to his feet he heard the shrill whistle of a railway engine. He could not have asked for a more timely bit of aid. He started off in the direction of this glorious whistle at a shambling trot. His progress resembled that of a drunken man, for he was growing more and more light-headed. But he stuck to it doggedly. The houses careened at times, and the
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