clawed down still more dirt, to make
sure nothing could be seen of the hole--had made the thing look just
like part of the big dirt-pile indeed--and then had legged it to the
ball-game now in progress on this midsummer Saturday afternoon, at the
extreme south end of the yard, behind the mat-shop.

Dirt trickled down upon the gray hair of Old Man Anderson in the dark
and stuffy hole he shared with his younger companion. But the darkness
and the stuffiness and the filtering dirt were unsensed. Something far
more momentous was in the minds of both. How soon would Slattery, the
prison guard, whom they knew to be lying dead in the alley between the
foundry and the tool-shop, be found? For years Slattery had been a
fairly good friend to Old Man Anderson, but what did that count in the
face of his becoming, for all his friendship, a last-minute and
totally unexpected impediment to the get-away? He had turned into the
alley just when Old Man Anderson and Detroit Jim were crouching for
the final jump to the dugout! A blow--a thud--that was all....

Anderson lay now, staring wide-eyed into the black nothing of the
hole. For the second time he had killed a man, and God knew he hadn't
intended to--either time! Fourteen years ago a man had tried to get
his wife away from him, while he was serving a one-year bit in the
county jail. Both men had had guns, and Old Man Anderson had killed
the other or he would have been killed himself. So that was no murder
at all! And as for Slattery--big, heavy, slow-moving, red-faced
Slattery--Old Man Anderson would even have gone out of his way to do
the guard a favour, under ordinary circumstances. But as between
Slattery and the chance to escape--that was different.

Old Man Anderson rubbed his right hand in the dirt and held it before
his eyes in the blackness. He knew that the moisture on it was
Slattery's blood. The iron pipe in Old Man Anderson's hands had struck
Slattery on the head just once, but once was enough.

Old Man Anderson burst into hiccoughing sobs. The younger convict
punched him in the ribs, and swore at him in muffled tones. Anderson
stifled his sobs then, but continued to sniffle and shiver. This time
it would absolutely be The Chair for him--if they got him! In a few
minutes they couldn't help discovering Slattery. Anderson never could
give himself up now, however this business of the dugout and the
hoped-for old sewer conduit should finally turn out. In the beginning
he h