There were several other schemes which he was turning over in his mind, none of which, however, had taken definite shape, and, not wishing to discourage his young friend, he answered his question as best he could.

“Well, my laddy, we’re going to have a hard time to get out, but I think we’ll do it.”

“But can you tell me how?”

Mickey scratched his head in his perplexed way, hardly feeling competent to come down to particulars.

“I can’t, exactly; I’ve a good many plans I’m turning over in my head, and some of them are very fine and grand, and its hard to pick out the right one.”

Fred felt that he would like to hear what some of them were, but he did not urge his friend, for he suspected that the fellow was trying to keep their courage up.

They had finished their meal, and were sitting upon the sandy soil, discussing the situation and throwing an occasional longing look at the opening above.  They had taken care to avoid getting directly beneath it; for they had no wish to have man or animal tumble down upon their heads.  Now and then some of the gravel loosened and rattled down, and the clear light that made its way through the overhanging bushes showed that the sun was still shining, and, no doubt, several hours still remained to them in which to do any work that might present itself.  But, unfortunately, nothing remained to do.

Whatever were the different schemes which Mickey was turning over in his mind, none of them was ripe enough to experiment with.  As the Irishman thought of this and that, he decided to make no special effort until the morrow.  He and Fred could remain where they were without inconvenience for a day or two longer, but it was necessary, too, that they should have their full strength of body and mind when the time should come to work.

“Sometimes when I git into a sore puzzle,” said Mickey, “and so many beautiful and irritating plans come up before me that I cannot find it in my heart which way to decide, I goes to slape and drames me way through it, right straight into the right way.”

“Did you ever find your path out of trouble?” inquired Fred.

“Very frequently—­that is, not to say so frequently—­but on one or two important occasions.  I mind the time when I was coorting Bridget O’Flaherty and Mollie McFizzle, in the ould counthry.  Both of ’em was fine gals, and the trouble was for me to decide which was the best as a helpmate to meself.

“Bridget had red hair and beautiful freckles and a turn-up nose, and she was so fond of going round without shoes that her feet spread out like boards; Molly was just as handsome, but her beauty was of another style.  She had very little hair upon her pad, and a little love-pat she had wid an old beau of hers caused a broken nose, which made her countenance quite picturesque.  She was also cross-eyed, and when she cocked one eye down at me, while she kept a watch on the door wid the other, there was a loveliness about her which is not often saan in the famale form.”