I thrust my hand into my trousers pocket and pulled out my knife. The large blade was open in a second, and I was at work with all my might trying to dig a hole through the side of the tank. I quickly saw that my task was hopeless. The wood was soft, but the planks were very thick, and it would be hours before I could produce the smallest opening. I must have something to occupy my attention, else I would go wild. So I dug on till I broke my blade off short. I dropped the useless knife into the water. It sunk with a dull splash. I stood feeling the water slowly creep its way upwards. I calculated that I had about an hour and a half of life left to me. The water reached my waist. I threw myself against the walls of my prison, shouting for help. But none came. The sound of my voice echoed again and again into my own ears--it reached no others. I thought the reverberations would never cease. It seemed to me as though the whole world must have heard that despairing cry. I listened--every nerve strained to catch some echoing shout. But the only sound that broke the stillness was the steady, incessant splash, splash, splash of falling water; and the heavy noise of that great pump working overhead. I called and listened again. Still no answer. My past life came up before me like a dream. I could see my mother--my good mother--as plainly with my mind’s eye, as I had ever seen her with the flush of life upon her cheek. I remembered the long confidential talks we had together and the many times she told me to be good and true and noble, and that was all she would ever ask. Then I recalled many of the things I had said to her, and, strange to tell, there dwelt in my recollection not the kisses I had given nor the love I had bestowed upon her: I could call back only my unkind, cruel remarks, and the heartbreaks I had caused her. I thought what a wretch I had been, and did not believe that we could ever meet in heaven. The water was up to my shoulders now, but I hardly noticed it. My thoughts turned upon my father--so recently deceased. I remembered his kind face, his noble brow, those premature wrinkles, and that iron-gray hair. His failure, which had been the cause of his death, was more the result of a lack of business instinct than anything else. His tastes--like mine--had been wholly literary.