Freedom he did not hope for, but a brief respite from peril was his.
Time, time! What the doomed crave and pray for. That, at least was his.

He had presence of mind enough to refrain from making any sound, for the
thieves might still be in the neighborhood for all he knew. The last he
had heard of them they had been talking of "handling her" and "giving
her a shove" and he did not want them to come back and "handle" _him_.

So he sat on the rear seat of the big Hunkajunk car ready to withdraw
beneath the robe at the first sound of approaching footsteps. If he had
been free to make a companionable noise, to whistle or to hum, or to
listen to the friendly sound of his own movements he would have felt
less frightened. But the need of absolute silence in that dark prison
agitated him, and in the ghostly stillness every creak made the place
seem haunted.

If he could only have seen where he was! He knew now something of the
insane terrors of dark and solitary confinement. So strongly did this
terror hold him that for a minute or two he dared not stir upon the seat
for fear of causing the least sound which the darkness and strangeness
of the place might conjure into spectral voices.

There is but one way to dispel these horrors and that is by throwing
them off with quick movement and practical resolve.

He jumped down out of the car, and groping his way through the darkness
stumbled against a wall. Moving his hand along this he found it to be of
rough boards. Indeed, he had a more conclusive proof of this by the fact
that a large splinter of the dried wood pierced his finger, paining
acutely. He pulled it out and sucked the bleeding cut, then wound his