There was no sleep for them. Davy visited the trap over a hundred times
that night. His mother, breaking over the traces of restraint, hugged
the jug of whiskey, taking swig after swig as the vigil wore on. At last
Davy, driven to it, insisted upon having his share. Bill drank but
little, and it was not long before Rosalie observed the shifty, nervous
look in his eyes. From time to time he slyly appropriated certain
articles, dropping them into his coat pocket. His ear muffs, muffler,
gloves, matches, tobacco and many chunks of bread and bacon were stowed
stealthily in the pockets of his coat. At last it dawned upon her that
Bill was preparing to desert. Hope lay with him, then. If he could only
be induced to give her an equal chance to escape!
Mother and son became maudlin in their--not cups, but jug; but Davy had
the sense to imbibe more cautiously, a fact which seemed to annoy the
nervous Bill.
"I must have air--fresh air," suddenly moaned Rosalie from her corner,
the strain proving too great for her nerves. Bill strode over and looked
down upon the trembling form for a full minute. "Take me outside for
just a minute--just a minute, please. I am dying in here."
"Lemme take her out," cackled old Maude. "I'll give her all the air she
wants. Want so--some air myself. Lemme give her air, Bill. Have some air
on me, pardner.
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