cane me—and that's flat!" and he shook his curly head decidedly.
The room was less than ten feet square and plainly furnished with two chairs and a small couch. In one corner was a washstand containing a basin and a pitcher of water.
"This looks a good deal like a cell," he mused as he gazed around. Suddenly his eyes caught some writing on the wall in lead pencil. He stepped over to read it.
"Josiah Crabtree put me here,
And I am feeling very queer;
He boxed my ears and pulled my hair—
Oh, when I'm free won't I get square!"
"Somebody else has been here before me," thought Tom. "I rather reckon I'll get square too. Hullo, here's another Whittier or Longfellow:
"'In this lock-up I'm confined;
If I stay long I'll lose my mind.
Two days and nights I've paced the floor,
As many others have before.'"
"I hope I don't stay two days and nights," said Tom half aloud. Then he walked to the single window of the apartment, to find that it was heavily barred.
"No escaping that way," he went on, and turned to read another inscription, this time in blank verse:
