“Aw, come on—­be a sport!” he urged.  “Just open this one cell, here, and give that lad the keys.  He can do the rest while we beat it.  If you was in there, wouldn’t you want to get out?”

This appeal had its effect on the Samaritan.  He unlocked the cell door, after a cautious trying of half a dozen keys.  Apparently his scruples returned again; he stood irresolute in the cell doorway, turning the searchlight on its yet unawakened occupant.

Peter swooped down from behind.  His hands gripped the rescuer’s ankles; he heaved swiftly, at the same time lunging forward with head and shoulders, with all the force of his small, seasoned body behind the effort.  The Samaritan toppled over, sprawling on his face within the cell.  With a heartfelt shriek the legal occupant leaped from his bunk and landed on the intruder’s shoulder blades.  Peter slammed shut the door; the spring lock clicked.

The searchlight rolled, luminous, along the floor; its glowworm light showed Poole’s unmasked and twisted face.  Pete snatched the bunch of keys and raced up the stairs, bending low to avoid a possible bullet; followed by disapproving words.

At the stairhead, beyond the range of a bullet’s flight, Peter paused.  Pandemonium reigned below.  The roused prisoners shouted rage, alarm, or joy, and whistled shrilly through their fingers, wild with excitement; and from the violated cell arose a prodigious crash of thudding fists, the smashing of a splintered chair, the sickening impact of locked bodies falling against the stone walls or upon the complaining bunk, accompanied by verbiage, and also by rattling of iron doors, hoots, cheers and catcalls from the other cells.  Authority made no sign.

Peter crouched in the darkness above, smiling happily.  From the duration of the conflict the combatants seemed to be equally matched.  But the roar of battle grew presently feebler; curiosity stilled the audience, at least in part; it became evident, by language and the sound of tortured and whistling breath, that Poole was choking his opponent into submission and offering profuse apologies for his disturbance of privacy.  Mingled with this explanation were derogatory opinions of some one, delivered with extraordinary bitterness.  From the context it would seem that those remarks were meant to apply to Peter Johnson.  Listening intently, Peter seemed to hear from the first floor a feeble drumming, as of one beating the floor with bound feet.  Then the tumult broke out afresh.

Peter went back to his cell and lit his lamp.  Leaving the door wide open, he coiled the rope neatly and placed it upon his table, laid the hacksaw beside it, undressed himself, blew out the light; and so lay down to pleasant dreams.

CHAPTER XIV

Mr. Johnson was rudely wakened from his slumbers by a violent hand upon his shoulder.  Opening his eyes, he smiled up into the scowling face of Undersheriff Barton.