The work at the sides and top was slower, because it was difficult to get a purchase, and to prevent fragments from falling. He dug till he got the purchase, and then held the brick up with one hand and pried with the other. Once a fragment of cement fell with a smart slap on the sill. He got down suddenly and sat on the floor, and listened, wiping his wet hands and forehead with his cap. Either Sweeney or his assistant was always around at night, and would have heard, if he had happened to be in the upper corridor. He carried the mattress to the window and laid it underneath to catch and deaden the noise, if anything more fell. It was half-past one by the striking of the city clocks when he finished stripping off the first thickness of bricks. If the ends of the bars were buried more than two layers downward, there would not be time to strip them all before daylight. He forced up those on the sill, which were opposite one of the bars, and felt with his fingers. He felt the end of the bar, and knew that at that rate he would be out by three o'clock. He worked on. His black hair hung wet against his forehead. He watched intensely for the loosened fragments of cement. He grew more skilful, more noiseless. The loudest sound in the cell was his own breathing, and except for that, only little rasps and clicks. When the last brick was out and laid in its place, he moved the grating, which came out easily with a little scraping noise. It was heavy, and he rested a corner of it on the mattress, so that the ends of the bars caught in the sides of the window. Then he brought his blanket. In lifting the blanket he noticed the short iron braces on the cot bed. They suggested an idea. He took out the screws of one of them with the chisel, carried it to the window, and scratched it on the bricks until its black enamel was rubbed off one end; then laid it on the floor. Whether possible to do so or not, people would think he must have loosened the bricks with the brace. He wasn't going to mess “old Al” again, he thought, no, nor meet him in St. Louis for that matter, nor be led around the rest of his life by a string. “Not me, like a damn squealing little pig” He slit one end of the blanket into strips with his chisel, tied each strip to the bars of the grating and dropped the other end of the blanket through the window. Leaning out, he looked down and saw that it reached the grating of the window below. He put his shoes into his side coat pockets, the chisel into an inner coat pocket, and felt in his vest for the money Alcott had left him. He pulled his cap on hard, turned off the gas jet, and climbed over the grating.