The chain attached to his ankle-iron was heavy and strong--a trace-chain from a wagon, he judged. At the other end it was fastened to a huge iron staple, driven solidly into one of the timbers of the floor. A tug or two convinced him of the utter futility of trying to pull it out. The fetter, he was quite certain now, had been designed to hold big, powerful men--the stolen slaves who were said to be the special prey of Murrell and his outlaw gang. When he felt of the leg-iron itself, it seemed large and loose about his ankle, though much too small to allow his heel to pass through. His fingers moved over the surface of the fetter and paused suddenly in a deep, rough notch at the back, near the hinge. With trembling hands he turned it as far as he could and peered down at it through the dim half-dusk. At some time or other the iron had been partly cut through by a file. Tad’s pulses leaped as he made this discovery. For a moment he thought he might finish what had been so well begun by some earlier prisoner. But as he searched about the floor in his corner he realized that there was nothing in sight that could possibly be used as an abrasive. The afternoon dragged by with sickening slowness. The heat of the garret nearly suffocated him, and there was nothing to do but fight the flies and wait--for what, he did not know. An intermittent drone of voices could be heard in the room downstairs. Gradually they grew louder--as the bottle was passed, Tad supposed--and he could even catch occasional words. Perhaps he would be able to overhear some of their plans. Crawling as far as the chain would permit, he stretched full length on his stomach, and laid an ear to the floor. As he did so, one of the boards moved a trifle under his hand. He touched it again and found it loose. By working his finger nails into the crack at one end he was able to lift it. The board was a short one that had been put in as a filler between two longer pieces. When Tad put his head down over the hole there were only thin lath and plaster between him and the room below. Lying still and listening, he could now catch quite distinctly the louder parts of the conversation. There was a deep, angry voice which he recognized as that of Bull Whaley, and a thin whine that he thought must come from Sam Jukes. Murrell himself seemed to be saying very little. “But five thousand dollars, man--why, that’s the price of four or five good cotton niggers!” Whaley was roaring. “Don’t the notice say ‘dead or alive’? He’s supposed to ha’ been drowned, ain’t he? Well,” he finished triumphantly, “we kin fix that part of it easy enough.”