A silent witness
concrete, the walls of rough brickwork and the ceiling of plaster, all
cracked and falling in. There was plenty of ventilation there, but
that was of no interest to me. Carbonic acid gas is so heavy that it
behaves almost like a liquid, and it would have filled the cellar and
suffocated me even if the top of my prison had been open to the sky.
The adjoining cellar was already filling rapidly, and when the gas in
it reached the level of the opening, it would percolate through my
coat and come pouring down into my cellar. But that, as I have said,
would take some time--if the dividing wall was moderately sound. This
important qualification, as soon as it occurred to me, set me
exploring the wall with the aid of another match; and very
unsatisfactory was the result. It was a bad wall, built of inferior
brick and worse mortar, and was marked by innumerable holes where
wall-hooks and other fastenings had been driven in between the bricks.
My brief survey convinced me that, so far from being gas-tight, the
wall was as pervious as a sponge, and that whatever I meant to do to
preserve my life, I must set about without delay.
But what was I to do? That was the urgent, the vital question. Escape
was evidently impossible. There were no means of stopping up the
numberless holes and weak places in the wall. The only vulnerable spot
was the door. If I could establish some communication with the outer
air, I could, for a time at least, disregard the poisonous gas with
which I should presently be surrounded.
The first thing to be considered was the keyhole. That must be
unstopped at once. Fumbling in my bag--for I had grown of a sudden
niggardly with my matches--I found a good-sized probe, which I
insinuated into the keyhole; and, in a moment, my hopes in that
direction were extinguished. For the end of the probe impinged upon
metal. The keyhole was not stopped with rag, but with a plate of metal
fixed on the outside. With rapidly-growing alarm, but with a tidiness
born of habit, I put the probe back in the bag and began feverishly to
review the situation and consider my resources. And then I had an
idea, only a poor, forlorn hope, but still an idea.
There is a certain ingenious type of pocket-knife, devised principally
in the interest of the cutlery trade, that innocent persons (usually
of the female persuasion) are wont to bestow as presents on their
masculine friends. Such a knife I chanced to possess. It had been
given to me by an aunt, and sentimental considerations had induced me
to give it an amount of room in my trousers’ pocket that I continually
grudged. However, there it was at this critical moment, with its
corkscrew, gimlet, its bewildering array of blades, its hoof-pick,
tooth-pick, tweezers, file, screw-driver and assorted unclassifiable
tools; a ponderous lump of pocket-destroying uselessness--and yet, the
appointed means of saving my life.
The gimlet was the first tool that I called into requisition. Very
gingerly--for these tools are commonly over-tempered and brittle--I
bored in the thick plank a hole at about the level of my mouth; and as
I worked I turned over my further plans. When the gimlet was through
the door, I selected a tool on whose use I had often speculated--a
sharp-edged spike, like a diminutive and very stumpy bayonet--which I
proceeded to use broach-wise to enlarge the hole. When this tool
worked loose, I exchanged it for the screw-driver, with which I
managed to broach the hole out to about half an inch in width. And
this was as large as I could make it, and it was not large enough.
True, one could breathe fairly comfortably through a half-inch hole,
but, with the deadly gas circulating around, a freer opening was very
desirable.
Then I bethought me that the magic knife contained a saw--a wretched,
thick-bladed affair, but still a saw--which would actually cut wood if
you gave it time. This implement suggested a simple plan which I
forthwith put into execution, working as rapidly as I could without
running the risk of breaking the tools. My plan was to make a second
hole some two inches diagonally below the first, and from each hole to
carry two saw-cuts at right angles to one another. The two pairs of
cuts would intersect and take a square piece out of the door, giving
me a little window through which I could breathe in comfort.
It was a trifling task, but yet, with the miserable tools I had, it
took a considerable time to execute; the more since the saw blade was
wider than the holes, excepting at its point. However, it was
accomplished at last, and I had the satisfaction of pushing out the
little separated square of wood and feeling that I now had free access
to the pure air outside my dungeon.
But it was none too soon. As I rested from my labours, it occurred to
me to test the condition of the air inside. Lighting a wax match, I
held the little taper so that the flame ascended steadily, and then
lowered it slowly. As it descended the flame changed colour somewhat,
and about eighteen inches from the floor it went out quite suddenly.
There was, then, a layer of the pure gas about eighteen inches deep
covering the floor, and, no doubt, rising pretty rapidly.
This was rather startling, and it warned me to have recourse without
delay to my breathing hole. For though carbonic acid gas behaves
somewhat as a liquid, it is not a liquid: like other gases, it has the
power of diffusing upwards, and the air of the cellar must be already
getting unsafe. Accordingly, after carefully wiping the surface of the
door with my handkerchief, I applied my mouth, with some distaste, to
the opening and took in a deep draught of undoubtedly pure air.
The position in which I had to stand with my mouth to the hole was an
irksome one, and I foresaw that it would presently become very
fatiguing. Moreover, when the gas reached the level of my head, it
would be difficult to prevent some of it from finding its way into my
mouth and nostrils; and if it did, I should most assuredly be
poisoned. This consideration suggested the necessity of making another
hole at a lower level to let out the gas and allow me to rest myself
by a change of position. But this new task had to be carried out with
my mouth glued to the breathing hole; and very awkward and tiring I
found it and very slow was the progress that I made. This second hole
was smaller than the first, for time was precious, and I reflected
that I could easily enlarge it by fresh saw-cuts, each two of which
would take out a triangular piece of wood.
But it was tedious work, and its completion left me with aching arms;
indeed, I was beginning to ache all over from the constrained
position. Taking a deep breath and shutting my mouth, I stood up and
stretched myself. Then I lit a match and looked at my watch. Half-past
eight. I had been over two hours in the cellar. And meanwhile the
patients were waiting for me at the surgery, and, no doubt, murmuring
at the delay. How soon would my absence lead to enquiries? Or were
enquiries being made even now?
Looking at the match that I still held in my hand, I noticed that its
flame was pallid and bluish; and as I lowered it slowly, it went out
when it was a little over two feet from the floor. The gas, then, was
still rising, though not so rapidly as I had feared, but from the
altered colour of the flame, it was evident that the air of the
cellar, generally, contained enough diffused gas to be actively
poisonous.
After a time, the erect position began to grow insupportably
fatiguing. I felt that I must sit down for a few minutes’ rest, even
though prudence whispered that it was highly unsafe. I struggled for
awhile, but eventually, conquered by fatigue, sat down on the floor
with my mouth applied closely to the lower breathing-hole. I persuaded
myself that I would sit only just long enough to recover some of my
strength, but minute after minute sped by and still I felt an
unaccountable reluctance to rise.
Suddenly I became conscious of a vague feeling of drowsiness; of a
desire to lean back against the wall and doze. It was only slight, but
its significance was so appalling that I scrambled to my feet in a
panic, and, putting my mouth to the upper breathing-hole, took several
deep inspirations. But I soon realized that the upright position was
impossible. The drowsy feeling continued and there was growing with it
a lassitude and weakness of the limbs that threatened to leave me only
the choice between sitting or falling. A wave of furious anger swept
over me and roused me a little; a burst of hatred of the cowardly
wretch who had decoyed me, as I now suspected, to my death. Then this
feeling passed and was succeeded by chilly fear, and I sank down once
more into a sitting position with my mouth pressed to the lower
opening.
The time ran on unreckoned by me. Gradually, by imperceptible degrees,
my mental state grew more and yet more sluggish. Anger and fear and
ever-dwindling hope flitted by turns across the slowly-fading field of
my consciousness. Intervals of quiet indifference--almost of placid
comfort--began to intervene, with increasing lassitude and a growing
desire for rest. To lie down; that was what I wanted. To lay my head
upon the stony floor and sink into sweet oblivion.
At last I must have actually dozed, though, fortunately, without
removing my mouth from the breathing-hole, for I had no sense of the
passage of time, when I was suddenly aroused by the loud and
continuous jangling of a bell.
I listened with a sort of dull eagerness and keeping awake with a
conscious effort.
The bell pealed wildly and without a pause for what seemed to me quite
a long time.
Then it ceased, and again my consciousness began to grow dim. After an
interval, I know not how long, there came to me dimly and only
half-perceived, the closing of a door, the patter of quick footsteps,
and then the voice of a man calling me by name.
I struggled to get on to my feet, but could not move. But I still held
the clasp-knife and was able to rap with it feebly on the door. Again
I heard the voice--it sounded nearer now, and yet infinitely far
away--and again I rapped on the door and shouted through the
breathing-hole; a thin, muffled cry, such as one utters in a troubled
dream. And then the drowsiness crept over me again and I heard no
more.
The next thing of which I was conscious was a sounding thwack on the
cheek with something wet that felt like a dead fish. I opened my eyes
and looked vaguely into two faces that were close to mine and seemed
to be lighted by a lamp or candle. The faces were somehow familiar,
but yet I failed clearly to recognize them, and, after staring
stupidly for a few moments, I began to doze again. Then the dead fish
returned to the assault and I again opened my eyes. Another vigorous
flop caused me to open my mouth with an unparliamentary gasp.
“Ah! That’s better,” said a familiar and yet “unplaced” voice. “When a
man is able to swear, he is fairly on the road to recovery.” Flop!
The renewed attentions of the dead fish (which turned out, later, to
be merely a wet towel) evoked further demonstrations on my part of
progressing recovery, accompanied by a nervous titter in a female
voice. Gradually the clouds rolled away, and to my returning
consciousness, the faces revealed themselves as those of Maggie, the
housemaid, and Dr. Thorndyke. Even to my muddled wits, the presence of
the latter was somewhat of a puzzle, and, in the intervals of
anathematizing the deceased fish--which I had not yet identified--I
found myself hazily speculating on the problem of how my revered
teacher came to be in this place, and what place this was.
“Come, now, Jardine,” said Dr. Thorndyke, emptying a jug of water on
my face, and receiving a volley of spluttered expletives in exchange,