No, by
Jove, there's the boat, but they probably guard it night and day, and
a man in the water would have no chance against one in the boat.
Perhaps there's gratings between the cells. Of course, there's bound
to be. No one would leave the bed of a stream clear for any one to
navigate. Prisoners would visit each other in their cells, and that's
not allowed in any respectable prison. I wonder if there's any one
next door on either side of me. An iron grid won't keep out the sound.
I'll try," and going again to the margin of the watercourse, he
shouted several times as loudly as he could, but only a sepulchral
echo, as if from a vault, replied to him.
"I imagine the adjoining cells are empty. No enjoyable companionship
to be expected here. I wonder if they've got the other poor devils up
from the steamer yet. I'll sit down on the bench and listen."
He could have found the bench and shelf almost immediately by groping
round the wall, but he determined to exercise his sense of direction,
to pit himself against the darkness.
"I need not hurry," he said, "I may be a long time here."
In his mind he had a picture of the cell, but now that he listened to
the water it seemed to have changed its direction, and he found he had
to rearrange this mental picture, and make a different set of
calculations to fit the new position. Then he shuffled slowly forward
with hands outstretched, but he came to the wall, and not to the
bench.
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