Kinsley, who had not before observed my presence, started back, turned pale, and said: “I—I—don’t know.”
Glad to get out of my presence, Kinsley ran up stairs, and in a minute or so returned, and reported what had been done.
Now, if the Doctor had possessed the heart of a human being he would have suspended his persecutions, after that—in a word, would have “let up” on me—but he seemed entirely impervious to good jokes, practical or otherwise, and was more than ever determined to punish me.
“Sergeant,” said he, no doubt thinking _he_ was perpetrating a joke—but _I_ couldn’t see it—“Smith wants a room _lower down_, he says. I think we can accommodate him. _Put him in the cellar!_”
There was, in the basement, a dark apartment with an iron door—the same room in which crazy Thomas had been confined—and that was the “room lower down” assigned me on this melancholy occasion.
“Will you go?” said Kinsley, standing off at a respectful distance: “Or will it be necessary to call the guard?”
“It will be necessary to call the guard,” I replied, folding up my paper, arising and taking a hostile attitude.
“You might as well go with him quietly, Smith”—the Doctor began.
“No I won’t,” I interrupted. “Should I do so, it is not positively certain that he would get back in a sound condition, and you might lose a valuable servant, who is not scrupulous about turning his hand to any sort of work.”
Only a few dim rays of light found their way into my dismal prison, and they came struggling through a small crevice in the double partition of thick pine boards that divided the “cell” from the knapsack-room. On this formidable partition I at once went to work, with extraordinary _nonchalance_, with a small six-bladed knife I had in my pocket. I think this course was much more laudable than that pursued by Mr. Thomas, when confined in the same apartment, with a knife for a companion.
I worked diligently, cutting off one thin shaving after another, till night came; by which time I had actually cut a hole in the thick partition through which I could easily thrust my arm.
Next morning, after a miserable fragment of repose on an old mattress, I arose early, and resumed my work. I had not been long at it when Sergeant Kinsley came down with some provisions for me, consisting of _bread and water_. I took the large tin cup of water from his hand, dashed it in his face, slammed the iron door to, braced it with one of my crutches, and went at my work again; while he, strangling, sputtering and swearing in wild rage, locked the door, and rushed up stairs.
