The Problem of Cell 13 | Page 5

The Thinking Machine, on hands and knees, started a search for this
spot, feeling in the darkness with his long, slender fingers.
At last his search was rewarded. He came upon a small opening in the
floor, level with the cement. It was perfectly round and somewhat
larger than a silver dollar. This was the way the rats had gone. He put
his fingers deep into the opening; it seemed to be a disused drainage
pipe and was dry and dusty.

Having satisfied himself on this point, he sat on the bed again for an
hour, then made another inspection of his surroundings through the
small cell window. One of the outside guards stood directly opposite,
beside the wall, and happened to be looking at the window of Cell 13
when the head of The Thinking Machine appeared. But the scientist
didn't notice the guard.
Noon came and the jailer appeared with the prison dinner of repulsively
plain food. At home The Thinking Machine merely ate to live; here he
took what was offered without comment. Occasionally he spoke to the
jailer who stood outside the door watching him.
"Any improvements made here in the last few years?" he asked.
"Nothing particularly," replied the jailer. "New wall was built four
years ago."
"Anything done to the prison proper?"
"Painted the woodwork outside, and I believe about seven years ago a
new system of plumbing was put in."
"Ah!" said the prisoner. "How far is the river over there?"
"About three hundred feet. The boys have a baseball ground between
the wall and the river."
The Thinking Machine had nothing further to say just then, but when
the jailer was ready to go he asked for some water.
"I get very thirsty here," he explained. "Would it be possible for you to
leave a little water in a bowl for me?"
"I'll ask the warden," replied the jailer, and he went away. Half an hour
later he returned with water in a small earthen bowl.
"The warden says you may keep this bowl," he informed the prisoner.
"But you must show it to me when I ask for it. If it is broken, it will be
the last."

"Thank you," said The Thinking Machine. "I shan't break it."
The jailer went on about his duties. For just the fraction of a second it
seemed that The Thinking Machine wanted to ask a question, but he
didn't.
Two hours later this same jailer, in passing the door of Cell No. 13,
heard a noise inside and stopped. The Thinking Machine was down on
his hands and knees in a corner of the cell, and from that same corner
came several frightened squeaks. The jailer looked on interestedly.
"Ah, I've got you," he heard the prisoner say.
"Got what?" he asked, sharply.
"One of these rats," was the reply. "See?" And between the scientist's
long fingers the jailer saw a small gray rat struggling. The prisoner
brought it over to the light and looked at it closely. "It's a water rat," he
said.
"Ain't you got anything better to do than to catch rats?" asked the jailer.
"It's disgraceful that they should be here at all," was the irritated reply.
"Take this one away and kill it. There are dozens more where it came
from."
The jailer took the wriggling, squirmy rodent and flung it down on the
floor violently. It gave one squeak and lay still. Later he reported the
incident to the warden, who only smiled.
Still later that afternoon the outside armed guard on Cell 13 side of the
prison looked up again at the window and saw the prisoner looking out.
He saw a hand raised to the barred window and then something white
fluttered to the ground, directly under the window of Cell 13. It was a
little roll of linen, evidently of white shirting material, and tied around
it was a five-dollar bill. The guard looked up at the window again, but
the face had disappeared.

With a grim smile he took the little linen roll and the five-dollar bill to
the warden's office. There together they deciphered something which
was written on it with a queer sort of ink, frequently blurred. On the
outside was this:
"Finder of this please deliver to Dr. Charles Ransome."
"Ah," said the warden, with a chuckle. "Plan of escape number one has
gone wrong." Then, as an afterthought: "But why did he address it to
Dr. Ransome?"
"And where did he get the pen and ink to write with?" asked the guard.
The warden looked at the guard and the guard looked at the warden.
There was no apparent solution of that mystery. The warden studied the
writing carefully, then shook his head.
"Well, let's see what he was going to say to