Murrell was accompanied by a big, florid young man in the dapper dress of a planter, who slapped the dust from his boots with a riding-whip as he stared down at the boy. “Haw, haw! Fifty thousand--for that?” he laughed. “Here, step up, boy, and let’s have a look at you!” And he flicked the stinging lash of his whip into the lad’s neck. A sudden flush spread over Tad’s face, but he sat perfectly still. Angrily, Carson threw up his arm for a full stroke, but Murrell detained him with a sharp word. “Careful,” he said. “He’s mine, you know.” For a moment Carson faced the cold gleam of the chief’s eyes. Then his own eyes dropped. He gave an uneasy laugh and turned toward the stairs, and after another glance at Tad, Murrell followed him. The time dragged by interminably. Buzzing flies made the daylight hours seem as unbearably long as the night had been. Sometime in the afternoon the boy dozed off and was finally awakened by the arrival of his supper. To his joy there was bread and butter. He was so hungry that there was a real temptation to gobble all of it, but he saved the last piece, pretending to eat it, as before. Just as Congo stooped to pick up the plate, there came that ear-splitting whistle that Tad had heard once before, and the big negro leaped as if he had been shot. Without even a backward look he slipped through the door, fastened it, and hurried down the stairs. Other horsemen had arrived, it seemed. Tad heard strange voices below, and after removing the board caught Murrell’s answer. “If they do come, it will be in daylight,” he was saying. “We’ll have to run him back to a safer place in the morning, and lie low for a few days.” The boy’s heart sank. Tonight, it seemed, was his last chance. If he did not get away before morning he was to be taken off to some new stronghold where there would be even less hope of escape. Quickly he took the file out of the hole and set to work. Before darkness had completely fallen he could see that another hour’s labor would sever the broad iron ring. He rested a few minutes and then went on, pushing the file steadily back and forth. This time he took no chances with his bread and butter, but kept it tucked away in the bosom of his shirt. From the noise in the room below he judged that there must be five or six men at least gathered about the table. They seemed to be playing cards and drinking, for he heard frequent orders for rum punch shouted at a servant they called Juba. What game they were playing he could not tell, but the stakes must have been high. A loud voice, made thick by many potations, reached the boy distinctly through the garret floor,