The Problem of Cell 13 | Page 7

like these were not built for the likes of you to get out
of," he said, at last.
"But would you consider a proposition to help me get out?" the
prisoner insisted, almost beseechingly.
"No," said the jailer, shortly.
"Five hundred dollars," urged The Thinking Machine. "I am not a
criminal."
"No," said the jailer.
"A thousand?"
"No," again said the jailer, and he started away hurriedly to escape
further temptation. Then he turned back. "If you should give me ten
thousand dollars I couldn't get you out. You'd have to pass through
seven doors, and I only have the keys to two."
Then he told the warden all about it.

"Plan number two fails," said the warden, smiling grimly. "First a
cipher, then bribery."
When the jailer was on his way to Cell 13 at six o'clock, again bearing
food to The Thinking Machine, he paused, startled by the unmistakable
scrape, scrape of steel against steel. It stopped at the sound of his steps,
then craftily the jailer, who was beyond the prisoner's range of vision,
resumed his tramping, the sound being apparently that of a man going
away from Cell 13. As a matter of fact he was in the same spot.
After a moment there came again the steady scrape, scrape, and the
jailer crept cautiously on tiptoes to the door and peered between the
bars. The Thinking Machine was standing on the iron bed working at
the bars of the little window. He was using a file, judging from the
backward and forward swing of his arms.
Cautiously the jailer crept back to the office, summoned the warden in
person, and they returned to Cell 13 on tiptoes. The steady scrape was
still audible. The warden listened to satisfy himself and then suddenly
appeared at the door.
" Well?" he demanded, and there was a smile on his face.
The Thinking Machine glanced back from his perch on the bed and
leaped suddenly to the floor, making frantic efforts to hide something.
The warden went in, with hand extended.
"Give it up," he said.
"No," said the prisoner, sharply.
"Come, give it up," urged the warden. "I don't want to have to search
you again."
"No," repeated the prisoner.
"What was it, a file?" asked the warden.
The Thinking Machine was silent and stood squinting at the warden

with something very nearly approaching disappointment on his face --
nearly, but not quite. The warden was almost sympathetic.
"Plan number three fails, eh?" he asked, goodnaturedly. "Too bad, isn't
it?"
The prisoner didn't say.
"Search him," instructed the warden.
The jailer searched the prisoner carefully. At last, artfully concealed in
the waist band of the trousers, he found a piece of steel about two
inches long, with one side curved like a half moon.
"Ah," said the warden, as he received it from the jailer. "From your
shoe heel," and he smiled pleasantly.
The jailer continued his search and on the other side of the trousers
waist band found another piece of steel identical with the first. The
edges showed where they had been worn against the bars of the
window.
"You couldn't saw a way through those bars with these," said the
warden.
"I could have," said The Thinking Machine firmly.
"In six months, perhaps," said the warden, goodnaturedly.
The warden shook his head slowly as he gazed into the slightly flushed
face of his prisoner.
"Ready to give it up?" he asked.
"I haven't started yet," was the prompt reply.
Then came another exhaustive search of the cell. Carefully the two men
went over it, finally turning out the bed and searching that. Nothing.
The warden in person climbed upon the bed and examined the bars of

the window where the prisoner had been sawing. When he looked he
was amused.
"Just made it a little bright by hard rubbing," he said to the prisoner,
who stood looking on with a somewhat crestfallen air. The warden
grasped the iron bars in his strong hands and tried to shake them. They
were immovable, set firmly in the solid granite. He examined each in
turn and found them all satisfactory. Finally he climbed down from the
bed.
"Give it up, professor," he advised.
The Thinking Machine shook his head and the warden and jailer passed
on again. As they disappeared down the corridor The Thinking
Machine sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
"He's crazy to try to get out of that cell," commented the jailer.
"Of course he can't get out," said the warden. "But he's clever. I would
like to know what he wrote that cipher with."
It was four o'clock next morning when an awful, heart-racking shriek of
terror resounded through the great prison. It came from a cell
somewhere about