He was in a nice fix now, he thought to himself, as he stood in the middle of the room. That man was Renard, no doubt. And here was he, Fred, a prisoner at his mercy, and to make it worse, he was a reporter, hated almost as much by anarchists as the police. There was no possibility of his getting any help, no matter how long he was kept a prisoner, because no one knew where he was. For the past few days he had merely reported progress to the _Gazette_ office by telephone, and the city editor, of course, had not the remotest idea where he was working. It was impossible to escape from the window, because his captors could plainly see him if he tried to jump or climb down, for he could hear their angry voices in the kitchen below. So, after considering all these things, he wisely adopted the only course left open to him--he decided to await developments. He sat down, and expected every moment to hear footsteps coming up the stairs; but no such sound greeted his ears, and the hours passed slowly by. After a while he got tired of this sort of thing, and started to make a closer examination of his prison. He presently found a hole in the wall, with a round piece of tin on it, that opened into the chimney. The hole was evidently intended for a stove-pipe, and as soon as he removed the tin covering Fred could hear the voices below very much more plainly than before, for the sound was carried up the chimney, and by placing his ear close to the aperture he could even understand most of the words that were spoken. He intercepted a portion of the conversation, which startled him greatly. "Well," said one voice, "I guess he will have to be killed." "I hate to do it," said the other. "So do I; but we might as well." "How shall we do it, then?" "In the good old-fashioned way, I guess. I'll wring his neck." Fred did not remain to hear any more. He was almost paralyzed. Here he was caught in a trap, like a rat, and his captors were discussing the best way to kill him! He quickly determined that the only thing for him to do was to make a dash for liberty, so long as he had legs left to run on. He stepped to the window, and looked out into the back yard and over toward the woods. In the yard a big fat turkey gobbler was strutting about apparently little thinking of the date on the calendar. Seeing the turkey made Fred think of his family at home, and of the grief that these wretches below were trying to bring upon them, and of the happy Thanksgiving dinner that he was not to be present at. And as he thought of Thanksgiving and of the turkey, he leaned over against the window, and almost laughed out loud.