It was time for us to go to bed, but Mark called us into the dining-room to a council of war. We sat down around the table, with Mark at the head. He started talking almost in a whisper.

“S-s-speak low,” says he. “We don’t want the enemy to overhear our plans.”

That was right, for they might have sneaked up to the side of the house to listen. Mark wasn’t the sort of fellow to neglect any precaution just because it might not be necessary. Sometimes I thought he was too cautious, but usually it turned out he did the right thing.

“We can’t g-git out of here by daylight,” he says. “It’s got to be at n-n-night or early in the morning. Morning’s the best time, ’cause folks are t-t-tired with watchin’. ’Bout three in the m-mornin’.”

“You seem pretty sure we’re goin’ to git out,” says I.

“We got to git out,” says he, just as if that settled it. It didn’t seem to enter his head that sometimes folks can’t do things they think they’ve got to do.

“All right,” says I, but I was feeling sort of hopeless. “Let’s git at it. We’re losin’ time.”

“We w-won’t lose any more,” Mark says. “Has your uncle got a shovel?”

“I dun’no’,” says I; “and if he has it’s out in the barn.”

“Then we g-g-got to make one.”

“How?”

“Out of a board. Whittle it. We better make a c-couple while we’re at it.”

There was a big soap-box in the kitchen that Uncle Hieronymous used for a sort of table. Mark decided this would do all right, so we pulled it apart, and he and I set to work whittling shovels out of it. They were pretty clumsy, but Mark said they were all right, and so long as they suited him they were good enough for me.

“N-n-now,” says he, “we want a hatchet.”

“It’s in the cupboard,” says I. “What you want of it?”

“P-p-pry up a board in the floor,” says he.

“You can’t crawl out under the house. There isn’t any opening. The logs go down to the ground all the way around.”

“I knew it,” he says. “What you s’pose the sh-sh-shovels are for?”

I got the hatchet, and we decided it was best to pull up a board in the kitchen, where they were wider. The kitchen floor was rough lumber, and some boards were eight inches wide, with cracks between.

“It’ll make a n-noise,” says Mark, “and they’ll suspect we’re up to somethin’.” He thought a minnit, pulling hard on his cheek. Then he got down the dish-pan and handed it to Plunk and gave Tallow a couple of milk-pans.

“When we b-begin work,” says he, “you make a racket. Keep at it steady.” All of a sudden he looked disgusted and kind of sorry for himself. He shook his head and slapped his leg. “There,” says he, “I almost forgot the window. Hang a quilt over it, Binney, so’s they can’t see in.”

I did that, and then we went to work on the floor, but first I told Mark I had a better noise-maker than a tin pan. I got it out of my satchel. It was a tin can with a string through it. There was a piece of resin, too, and when you put the can against a window and pulled the string it let out a racket that would scare a crow. Tallow took that and started in. Plunk pounded on the pans. All of us war-whooped.

It was hard work getting up the board, and we made a lot of noise at it, but I don’t believe Jiggins and Collins ever noticed anything besides the squealing squawk of the tin can and the banging on the pans and the hollering. It must have surprised them some, and I bet they wondered what we were up to. At last we got two boards up. That gave us plenty of space to crawl through.

Mark signaled to Tallow and Plunk to let up their racket. My, but it sounded quiet when they stopped! You never know how quiet stillness is until a big noise stops all of a sudden. Collins began to yell outside.

“Hey!” says he, “what you kids doing? Think this is the Fourth of July?”

“We were j-j-just trying to keep from f-fallin’ asleep,” says Mark.

Collins laughed. It wasn’t a mad laugh, but a really-truly good-natured one. “I hope you’ll get through before I go off watch. It’s rather company for me while I’m up, but most likely my friend Jiggins won’t appreciate it.”

“He don’t,” came a sleepy voice. “Not any. Decidedly not. First, down comes tent. Second, hullabalee. Quit it. Quit it.”

“G-guess we will,” says Mark. “Good night.”

They both called good night, friendly-like. It hardly seemed we were prisoners and they were enemy, but all the same that was the fact. I’ve heard about pickets in the Civil War meeting between the lines and exchanging things and being good friends, only to try to shoot each other next morning, and it didn’t seem exactly possible. I couldn’t see how a man you liked could be your enemy and how you could try to beat him, but I do now.

Mark wiggled his finger at us, and we gathered in a little knot around him, with our heads close together.

“We’ll divide into two w-watches,” he stuttered. “Binney and I will w-w-watch first. Two hours. Then Tallow and Plunk. By mornin’ we must have it d-d-dug.”

“Have what dug?”

“The tunnel,” says Mark. “We’re prisoners in Andersonville, hain’t we? D-d-didn’t the rebels capture us, and hain’t we starvin’? I’d like to know if we hain’t. Look out of the window and you c-can see gray-coated guards with m-muskets.”

Here was a surprise. We weren’t shut into a cave by white savages any longer. We didn’t have any jewel out of an idol. We were nothing but union soldiers in a rebel prison.

“Binney and I will d-dig two hours,” Mark says. “Then we’ll wake you. You d-dig two ............