Beyond the Wall by Henry Leverage The first of a remarkable series of underworld stories by the author of “Thirst” and “The Harvest of the Deep.” Few other writers have Mr. Leverage’s keen sense of drama and ability to describe swift action clearly. Chester Fay, a slender, keen-eyed, gray-haired young man,--clad in prison shoddy, serving life and fifteen years at Rockglen,--glanced through the rain and over the wall to where a green-cloaked hill loomed. “Charley,” he whispered, “we might as well try it this afternoon. Are you game?” Charley O’Mara, sixty-five years old, bent, broken, and bitter at the law, coughed a warning. He raised his pick and started digging around a flower-bed. A guard in a heavy raincoat, carrying a dripping rifle, came toward the two prisoners. He stopped a few feet away from Fay. “Quit that talkin’!” he snarled. “I’ll chalk you in if I see any more of it!” Fay did not answer the guard. He spaded the earth, dug deep, tossed the shovelfuls to one side and waited until the guard had strolled within the shelter of a low shed. “Charley!” he continued without moving his lips. “Listen, old pal. See that motortruck near the shed?” “I see it, Chester.” “See where the screw is standing?” “He’s watching us.” “And I’m watching him, Charley. We can beat this stir in an hour. Do you want to try it?” “How you going to do it?” “Will you follow me?” “Yes, pal.” “Wait till it gets a little darker. Then we’ll take the chance.” The prison guard stood with his rifle lowered to the moist earth beneath the shed. His eyes ranged from the two convicts to the wall upon which were other guards sheltered in tiny guardhouses. He yawned and drowsed, standing. Fay worked in a slow circle. He had seen the auto-truck come into the prison yard at noon. It was part of the road-gang’s outfit. There was no road-work that day, on account of the rain. The inmate driver had gone into the cellhouse. Old Charley O’Mara let his pick dig into the earth with feeble strokes. He paused at times. There was that to Fay’s actions which presaged much. The gray-haired young man was gradually closing in on the drowsing guard. He was like a lean panther getting ready for a spring. * * * * * The attack came with lightninglike suddenness. Fay dropped his shovel, crossed the earth, struck the guard a short-arm uppercut and bore him down to earth, where he smothered his cries with a flap of the raincoat. Charley O’Mara came limping toward the shed. “Get a rope!” snapped Fay. “I don’t want to croak him.” “Croakin’s too good for the likes of him, Chester.” “Get a rope. We’ve got about fifteen minutes to work in. We ought to be beyond the wall by then.”