One night when Runnles and the bosun were at work, the chisel of the former met with no further obstacle.  Enlarging the hole he had made, he set his eye to it, and whispered to the bosun to blow out the candle.  Then he crawled back into the room and told me in his quiet way that he had seen the stars.  Before morning the cement round a stone somewhat larger than the one we first removed had been scraped away, or pushed out into the moat, and we knew that when we had hauled the stone back through the tunnel into the room we should have made a hole large enough for the biggest of us to pass through.

My fears for the success of our enterprise were never greater than at this moment when the way seemed open.  The men were in so wild a state of excitement that I was consumed with anxiety lest their demeanor should arouse suspicion among our guardians.  Before I went down to the courtyard I spoke to them very earnestly, begging them to keep a watch on themselves, and not betray by word, look or sign that anything had happened to break the monotony of our life.

They obeyed my injunctions almost too well, for a more silent, morose, hangdog set of fellows could never have been seen; they provoked jests from the prisoners of the other dormitories, who declared that sure their music had made them all melancholy.

“It must be tonight, Joe,” I said, when, our morning tasks being done, he and I went apart from the rest for a little private talk.  “If we delay it, I cannot answer for their behavior.”

“That is all very true, sir,” said Joe; “but I can not see how we are to manage it.  There’s a hole in the wall, to be sure, and a new rope on the windlass of the well:  but how we be going to get the rope where ’tis needed is more than I can guess.”

“Don’t you think that by tonight our drum will want washing?” I said.

He looked at me, clearly puzzled at what seemed a sudden change of subject.

“’Tis very dirty, to be sure; but washing it won’t make it sound no better, I reckon.”

“I rather think it will,” I replied, and then I told him what I had in mind.

“’Tis a main risky trick, sir,” he said dubiously.  “If they should happen to want another bucketful of water we’re lost men.”

“We must risk something, Joe,” I answered, “and fortune has so well befriended us hitherto that I can’t think she will balk us now.”

But I own that my anxieties increased as the day wore on, and my melancholy countenance was doubtless a good match with the faces of my comrades.  When one of the other prisoners twitted me on my lugubrious mien, I had an inspiration.

“We are saving our cheerfulness for the concert tonight,” I said.  “’Twill be the best we have ever given, and we shall never give a better.”

And for the rest of the day there was a great buzz of talk among the men about the announcement I had made, and a great deal of laughter at our mournful preparation for a cheerful entertainment.