t you are your own
master, and I see I cannot dissuade you from the attempt. But, boy, you
will promise me not to take any unnecessary or foolish risks?"

"I promise gladly, and, Mr. Austin, I hate to leave you here."

Their quarters were commodious and Ned slept alone in a small room to
the left of the main apartment. It was a bare place with only a bed and
a chair, but it was lighted by a fairly large window. Ned examined this
window critically. It had a horizontal iron bar across the middle, and
it was about thirty feet from the ground. He pulled at the iron bar with
both hands but, although rusty with time, it would not move in its
socket. Then he measured the two spaces between the bar and the wall.

Hope sprang up in the boy's heart. Then he did a strange thing. He
removed nearly all his clothing and tried to press his head and
shoulders between the bar and the wall. His head, which was of the long
narrow type, so common in the scholar, would have gone through the
aperture, had it not been for his hair which was long, and which grew
uncommonly thick. His shoulders were very thick and broad and they, too,
halted him. He drew back and felt a keen thrill of disappointment.

But he was a boy who usually clung tenaciously to an idea, and, sitting
down, he concentrated his mind upon the plan that he had formed. By and
by a possible way out came to him. Then he lay down upon the bed, drew a
blanket over him because the night was chill in the City of Mexico, and
calmly sought sleep.

CHAPTER II

A HAIR-CUT

The optimism of Mr. Austin endured the next morning, but Ned was gloomy.
Since it was his habit to be silent, the man did not notice it at first.
The breakfast was good, with tortillas, frijoles, other Mexican dishes
and coffee, but the boy had no appetite. He merely picked at his food,
made a faint effort or two to drink his coffee and finally put the cup
back almost full in the saucer. Then Mr. Austin began to observe.

"Are you ill, Ned?" he asked. "Is this imprisonment beginning to tell
upon you? I had thought that you were standing it well. Can't you eat?"

"I don't believe I'm hungry," replied the boy, "but there is nothing
else the matter with me. I'll be all right, Uncle Steve. Don't you
bother about me."

He ate a little breakfast, about one half of the usual amount, and then,
asking to be excused, went to the window, where he again stared out at
the tiled roofs, the green foliage in the val