of battle grew presently feebler; curiosity stilled the audience, at
least in part; it became evident, by language and the sound of tortured
and whistling breath, that Poole was choking his opponent into submission
and offering profuse apologies for his disturbance of privacy. Mingled
with this explanation were derogatory opinions of some one, delivered
with extraordinary bitterness. From the context it would seem that those
remarks were meant to apply to Peter Johnson. Listening intently, Peter
seemed to hear from the first floor a feeble drumming, as of one beating
the floor with bound feet. Then the tumult broke out afresh.

Peter went back to his cell and lit his lamp. Leaving the door wide open,
he coiled the rope neatly and placed it upon his table, laid the hacksaw
beside it, undressed himself, blew out the light; and so lay down to
pleasant dreams.




CHAPTER XIV


Mr. Johnson was rudely wakened from his slumbers by a violent hand upon
his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he smiled up into the scowling face of
Undersheriff Barton.

"Good-morning, sheriff," he said, and sat up, yawning.

The sun was shining brightly. Mr. Johnson reached for his trousers and
yawned again.