CHAPTER I

A BOLT FOR FREEDOM


Most of the really important things in life--such as love and
death--happen unexpectedly. I know that my escape from Dartmoor did.

We had just left the quarries--eighteen of us, all dressed in that
depressing costume which King George provides for his less elusive
subjects--and we were shambling sullenly back along the gloomy road
which leads through the plantation to the prison. The time was about
four o'clock on a dull March afternoon.

In the roadway, on either side of us, tramped an armed warder, his
carbine in his hand, his eyes travelling with dull suspicion up and
down the gang. Fifteen yards away, parallel with our route, the sombre
figure of one of the civil guards kept pace with us through the trees.
We were a cheery party!

Suddenly, without any warning, one of the warders turned faint. He
dropped his carbine, and putting his hand to his head, stumbled
heavily against the low wall that separated us from the wood. The
clatter of his weapon, falling in the road, naturally brought all
eyes round in that direction, and seeing what had happened the whole