Half-a-dozen words will explain.
I had inserted the blade of my knife under the board, and was trying if it felt loose. Not that I believed I could prize it off with this; but rather to ascertain what resistance there was, in order to look out for some more proper lever.
To my sorrow, I leant too heavily upon the piece of steel; for a short, sharp crack, startling me worse than a shot would have done, announced that _the blade was broken_!
CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.
THE BROKEN BLADE.
Yes, the blade was broken quite through, and remained sticking between the pieces of wood. The haft came away in my hand; and as I pa.s.sed my thumb over the end of it, I could perceive that the blade had snapped off close to the end of the back-spring, so that not even the tenth of an inch of it was left in the handle.
I cannot describe the chagrin which this incident caused me. I at once recognised it as a misfortune of the very gravest kind, for without the knife what could I do?
Without it I was, as might be said, _unarmed and helpless_. I could make no further progress with my tunnel; I should have to abandon the enterprise so lately conceived, and upon which I had built such hopes of success; in other words, I might now renounce my design of proceeding farther, and resign myself to the miserable fate that once more stared me in the face.
There was something awful in this reaction of my spirits. It was painful in the extreme. The very suddenness of the change rendered the shock more acute. But the moment before, I was full of confidence, making fair progress in my enterprise, and cheered with partial success.
This unexpected misfortune had interrupted all, and plunged me back again into the gloomy gulf of despair.
For a long while I remained wavering and undecided. I could not make up my mind to do anything. What could I do? I could not continue my work: I had no tool to work with!
My mind seemed to wander. Several times I pa.s.sed my thumb along the handle of my knife, till it rested upon the short stump of the broken blade, or rather upon the neck, for the blade was all gone. I did this in a sort of mechanical way, to a.s.sure myself that it was really broken off; for so sudden had been the misfortune, that I could yet hardly believe in its reality. In truth, it had quite bewildered my senses, and in this state they remained for several minutes.
When the first shock was over, my self-possession slowly and gradually returned. a.s.sured at length of the sad reality, and knowing the worst, I began to reflect whether something might not still be done with the broken weapon.
The words of a great poet, which I had heard at school, came into my mind: "_Men better do their broken weapons use, than their bare hands_;"
and the suggestion that this wise saying afforded, I now took to myself.
It occurred to me, then, to examine the blade. The haft I held in my hand, but the blade still remained in the angle of the box, where it had broken off.
I drew it out, and pa.s.sed my finger over it. It was still entire, and as much of a blade as ever; but, alas! without the handle, what use could I make of it?
I grasped it round the thick end, and made trial whether I could still cut with it. It was some satisfaction to find that I could--a little.
The blade was a good long one, and this was a fortunate circ.u.mstance.
By wrapping a piece of rag around the thick end, I might yet make it available; though, of course, any cutting I might hereafter do with it, would be a slow and painful operation.
The idea of setting the blade in the haft again was out of the question.
It is true I entertained it at first, but I soon discovered a difficulty not to be got over; and that was the removal of the back-spring.
Could I only have got this out of the way, the haft would still have served for a handle. I could easily have inserted the broken end of the blade between the scales; and as I had plenty of good string, I might have tied it firmly there. But I had nothing to draw the well-riveted nail, and the back-spring resisted all my efforts to detach it.
The haft, therefore, was of no more use than an ordinary piece of stick--indeed, not so much, for just then it occurred to me that a piece of stick might serve my purpose better. Out of a proper piece, I might be able to make some sort of a handle that would serve to hold the blade, so that I might still cut with it.
The encouragement which this idea gave me, once more roused my mind to new activity, and I set to thinking how I might make a new haft for the broken blade.
Necessity sharpened my ingenuity; and I was not long in conceiving my design, nor a great while either about the execution of it; for in about an hour"s time I held in my hand a knife with a complete handle. It was but a rude one at best; but I felt satisfied it would serve my purpose nearly as well as that which I had lost; and this belief once more restored me to confidence and cheerfulness.
The new haft I had made in the following fashion:--Having procured a piece of wood from one of the thick boards, I first whittled it to the proper shape and size. This I was enabled to do with the blade, which, although without a handle, served well enough for light work like that.
I then contrived to make a cleft in the stick, to the depth of two inches from its end; and into this cleft I inserted the broken end of the blade. To lap this tightly with a string, was my next idea; but I perceived at once that this would not do. The string would be stretched by the action of the blade, and the latter would soon get loose. If the sharp edge only came against the twine, while the blade was being worked backwards and forwards, it would instantly sever it, and then the blade would pull out, perhaps drop down among the boxes, and so get lost.
Such an accident would be fatal to my prospects; and, if possible, I must not risk it.
What could I find that would fasten the blade more securely in the cleft? If I could have obtained a yard or two of wire, it would have been just the thing; but there was no wire near me. What! thought I, no wire near me? The piano! the strings! surely _they_ are of wire?
Once more the piano became the object of my attention; and if I could at that moment have reached the inside of it, I should certainly have robbed it of one of its strings. But, then, to get at the string?--that was a difficulty I had not thought of, but which the next moment came up before me. Of course, with my knife in its present condition, to cut my way into the piano would be a sheer impossibility, and I was forced to abandon the idea.
But in that instant I thought of another expedient--I thought of the iron hooping, of which there was plenty within my reach. The very thing. A piece of this would serve my purpose equally as well as wire.
It was thin and pliable, and one or two turns of it around the haft, by the neck of the blade, would hold the latter in its place admirably, and prevent it from budging either backwards or forwards. A string, lapped tightly over all, would keep the hoop from getting loose, and thus I should have a complete handle.
No sooner thought of than done. The piece of hoop was at once searched for and found. It was neatly wound round the neck of the blade and haft; and having been firmly tied with strong twine, I found myself once more in possession of a knife. The blade was of course much shorter than before, but I believed it would still be long enough for cutting through the thickest planks I should encounter; and with this belief I felt satisfied.
The different operations I have detailed must have occupied me for twenty hours at least. I was worn and wearied, and should have sought rest much sooner; but after the breaking of the blade, I could not think of resting. It would have been of no use attempting to sleep: my misery would have kept me awake.
The new knife, however, had restored my confidence; and I could no longer resist the desire to take that repose which, both in mind and body, I so much stood in need of.
I need hardly add that hunger compelled me to resort once more to my miserable larder; but, strange as it may appear to you--and as it does now to me--I felt no hardship in the kind of diet; but, on the contrary, ate my _rat-supper_ with as much relish as I should now do the choicest of dishes!
CHAPTER SIXTY.
A TRIANGULAR CHAMBER.
I pa.s.sed the night--I should rather say the hours of rest--in my old apartment, behind the water-b.u.t.t. Whether it was night or day, I no longer knew nor cared. On this occasion I slept well, and awoke refreshed and strengthened. My new diet, no doubt, aided in producing this effect; for, however repugnant it might be to a dainty palate, it served well enough for a famished stomach.
I was not loath to make my breakfast upon it, which I did the moment after awaking; and that finished, I again crawled back through my "gallery," and entered the empty box, where I had already spent nearly the whole of a day and night.
As I climbed into the same place, I could not help thinking how little way I had made during my last spell of twenty hours; but some secret thought inspired me with the hope, that on this occasion I should be more fortunate.
My intention was to continue the work which had been interrupted by the breaking of my knife. Before that unlucky accident befell me, I had noticed that the board was not very firmly nailed on. It could be started easily enough with a proper tool; I fancied that even a good piece of stick would do it.
I was careful not to make any more rash experiments with the blade of my knife. Now, more than ever, did I value this precious weapon; for I was fully sensible that my life depended on its endurance.
"If I only had a piece of some hard wood!" thought I.
I remembered that in making an entrance into the brandy-cask I had cut large pieces from the oaken staves. Perhaps one of these would do?
With the thought, I hurried back to the little chamber where I knew they were lying.
After removing some pieces of cloth, I found them; and having groped among the cuttings, I possessed myself of a piece that appeared as if it would suit my purpose.
Getting back to the box, I even shaped out a little crowbar, by giving the stick a wedge end with my knife; and this thin end I inserted under the plank, and drove it inward as far as I could, by striking it with a heavy piece of board.
It soon took hold; and then grasping it by the end, and jerking it downwards, I had the gratification to hear the creaking of the nails as they started outward. My fingers now took the place of the little lever; and the board came "skreeking" out of the bottom of the box.
That contiguous to it was more easily detached; and the two left me an aperture large enough to get out the contents, whatever they might be.
They were oblong packages, shaped like pieces of cloth or linen, but they felt lighter and more elastic than either. Better still, they could be pulled out more easily, and without the necessity of being taken out of their envelopes.
I had no curiosity to know what they were, since I could tell they were nothing eatable, and perhaps I should not have known till this day, but that in drawing out one more tightly wedged than the rest, its wrapper was torn off; and as I pa.s.sed my fingers between the folds of the soft light fabric, I guessed from their smooth silken surface that I was dealing with the finest of _velvet_.