The day was hot with a sultry, sluggish heat that intensified the apathetical state of the convicts. Their heavy pick-axes rose and fell in a simultaneous rhythm to the muscles on their brawny arms, and they appeared like so many machines. In the foreground, near the guard, the eyes of "Slim" Johnson were wary and alert. He glanced at his buddy, "Trig" Williams and nodded his head imperceptibly. Trig shifted his position—sidled nearer the guard.

​

For two months they had contrived the method of their escape--the method that Slim had suggested and meticulously planned. They had watched with wary eyes and remembered the habits of their foreman, and had laid their plans for his murder. The model conduct of Slim had made the guard become more lax in his watch over him, and he had become more or less of a "trusty". So they had planned for Slim to speak to Watkins, the guard, and divert his attention. Then Trig was to attack him with the pick-axe. After that their escape into the woods near which they were working would be assured, and they could either hide out there or escape into the next state. In the brief moments when they had time to talk they decided to carry out their plan on a day when the humidity and the heat had combined to put the men in a state of impassiveness. They hoped that this would have caused the guard to slightly relax his alert vigilance.

​

And such a day had arrived.

​

That morning Slim had passed Trig the high sign, and both had been on the lookout for a moment when the tension was eased, the watch relaxed. The afternoon had brought the perfect setting-the pris­oners were working with the stupor that heat and fatigue and pain brought on. And Watkins, the foreman, was tired too. Slim moved forward and spoke to the guard, who eased the grip on his rifle, let it slip to his side, and mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief. From the side there was a terrific lunge—a pick-axe flashed in the air—and the man lay on the ground with blood streaming out onto the hot earth.

​

Slim said, "I just saw him making a spring at you with the pick in his hand, so quick-like I grabbed mine, and downed him before he got you."

​

The guard wiped his sweaty face, fear and relief mingling in his eyes. "I—It was so sudden. I guess he was going to knock me out with the pick, then try to get away. He'd never have made it, though, with those woods full of houses."

​

"The fool! I didn't tell him that, though," Slim muttered.

​

"What say?" queried the guard.

​

"Oh, nothing. I just said you could be thankful you're alive."

​

"Don't I know? And thanks to you, Slim. You've been a pretty model prisoner all along, and I'll see that this means your freedom, Slim."

​