laundry and the cook-house, and in the niche behind the water-pipe found his file-knife where he had laid it, three years before. The blade was rusty now, dulled with cakes of rust; the point was gone and was like a knob; but the thing still was hard and thick and heavy; its well-balanced weight was still a joy in the hand. He slipped it under his waist-band, by the revolver—and immediately, like a memory of old times, almost sweet, he felt the rasp of it upon his skin, the rasp that once had been a promise, the promise now so near of fulfillment. He crept back farther into the narrow passage, and waited there, patient, alone with his purpose.
The whole heavens were red now, deep red, like congealing blood. A cold light spread along the ground, sweeping, swift, silent. In the blackness of the gut, 9009 listened. He caught the vague stir of awakening men in the cell-house. The stir grew, became detached and distinct noises. Doors rang, a tread of feet sounded, footsteps came down the alley; two trusties passed, paused in front of the cook-house, cough-
