“Naw,” Pap replied forcibly. “De wind might blow dat iron do’ shet. I likes de outside.” So, instead, the three groped their way down the corridor and sat down on the window-sill, using the grating behind them as a rest for their backs. “My name is Mustard Prophet.” “I’s Pap Curtain.” “Huh,” was the surprised grunt from Mobile. “Which?” Pap and Mustard asked in duet. “Whar you-alls from?” Mobile asked. “Tickfall.” There was a long silence. “Whut dey got you in fer?” Mobile asked next. “A nigger painted my clothes in de Chicken-Wing an’ I fit him to a finish,” Mustard chuckled. “Pap helped.” “Oo-ee, brudders!” Mobile exclaimed mournfully. “I bet dey gives you ’bout fo’teen years fer dat. Dis is a _mean_ town to niggers! I got to dis town on Sunday mawnin’, and got drunk, and got in a rookus in de Chicken-Wing, an’ dey put me in jail befo’ dinner-time an’ tuck all my money off me--an’ I had ’bout fifteen cents!” “Dat’s too bad,” Mustard sighed, leaning back against the grating behind him. Then he sprang forward suddenly and exclaimed: “Looky here, Mobile! De bars on dis here winder is plum’ loose!” “Suttinly,” Mobile whispered. “How come?” “I sawed on ’em all Sunday atternoon, an’ Sunday night, an’ all to-day, an’ a leetle bit to-night,” Mobile told him. “You ain’t figgerin’ to git out, is you?” Mustard inquired innocently. “Naw, son!” Mobile denied in tones which throbbed with disgust. “I jes’ wants to let in a leetle mo’ fresh air.” “Us favors mo’ fresh air, too,” Pap snickered. “I done got ’em sawed loose--mighty nigh,” Mobile said. “Dey’s sawed plum’ across on de sides an’ de bottom, but dey ain’t sawed on de top. You reckon us-all is got muscle enough to ketch holt dat gratin’ an’ bend her in or shove her out?” “Shorely!” Mustard asserted eagerly. “I kin heft a bale of cotton an’ tote it up de gang-plank of a steamboat.” The three stood up in the window with their feet resting on the sill. They stooped and caught hold of the grating at the lower end, and leaning backward, they lifted up and in. Under that mighty strain, the iron grating attached to the masonry by four bars at the top slowly bent and left an opening underneath large enough to allow their bodies to pass through. The three lost no time in climbing out. They had gone around to the front of the jail when Mustard stopped. “Hol’ on dar, Mobile,” he muttered. “I done ferget my cawnet-hawn an’ lef’ it in de jail. I needs dat hawn.” “Leave it be,” Mobile advised. “I done fergot my trombone-hawn,” Pap added. “Go back an’ git ’em fer us, Mustard.” “Naw,” Mobile protested. “I got plenty money. I’ll pay you fer ’em.” “Naw,” Mustard rejoined vehemently. “Marse Tom gimme dat cawnet-hawn, an’ he’s powerful proud of it. He say he’d know de sound of dat cawnet in Chinee.” Their argument ended right there, for suddenly from a window in the second story of the jail two voices screeched like a calliope: “Murder-r! He’p! Come here, eve’ybody!”