She giggled her appreciation of this remark for their unseen audience. "I'll say I won't. They're too slow on their pins. Rather sit still and suck up that green gooey than do anything. Cheez! What would I give for some good music." "If I had a hand-organ now--" said Sherman. "We've got the monk." He nodded toward the ape-man, while with his own fingernail he wrote. "_How's chances of getting out of here? Do you know the way?_" "I'll speak to one of the big shots tomorrow," she said aloud. "Maybe we can get him to let us run a show." On the book's flyleaf appeared the words. "_Only from the work-room on. It has an outside door._" "How would I do as a dancing partner?" asked Sherman. "_Good_," he wrote. "_I've doped out how to work these cars. Are you game for a try at it?_" "You haven't got the figure," she said. "I'd rather dance with that old papa Lassan that does the questions." "_Sure_," she wrote, "_any time you say._" They broke off the conversation at this point, and Sherman set himself to study out a plan for escape. He had watched the cars intently both inside and out. The same needle arrangement that released the cage bars, apparently, actuated the mechanism of the car doors, and it was located inside. This meant that he could secure admission to the same car that carried the girl, and with luck, would be able to get out at the same time she did. What to do after that was a matter of chance and inspiration. If only he had a weapon!... The oil and grease balls. They would do to throw--might spoil a Lassan's aim or check the rush of one of the ape-man servants. * * * * * As finally arranged between them the plan was that he was to get in the same car she did. She would tap on the back of her compartment to assure him that everything was in order, and tap again when the door opened for her to get out. He would leave her a second to get her bearings, then they would make a rush of it. He weighed the usefulness of the knife as a weapon and discarded it--too clumsy for throwing and in a close struggle with one of the ape-men slaves, made of metal like himself, it would be quite useless. But another tool, rather like a short-handled and badly shaped hammer, he did take. At last the hour arrived. The car ran down the line of cages, paused; opened before Marta Lami's. She smiled at him, nodded, and purposely delayed getting in. He fumbled desperately with his needle, fearing he could not make it, then it went home, the little arm at the bottom of the car swung out and its door opened. As he stepped in he heard the dancer's tap of encouragement from the compartment ahead.