Sam was at the door now. He laid his hand on the knob, but at the same instant the door closed and latched and the key turned outside. Sam lost his temper.
“If you don’t open this door at once I’ll kick a hole through it! And what’s more the minute I get out I’ll go to the police and have you arrested!” To emphasize his threats Sam delivered a kick that cracked a panel.
“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” said Perkins soothingly from beyond. “Begging your pardon, sir, if I was you I’d eat my dinner before it gets cold entirely.”
There was no answer. On the stairs Perkins’s boots sounded retreat. Sam stormed and kicked at the door, but, although it was an easy enough matter to crack the panels, the lock held firmly. Besides, baseball shoes aren’t stiff enough at the toes to make good battering-rams. Sam retreated to the bed again, his foot tingling. Presently philosophy prompted him to investigate what lay under the big napkin on the tray. After all, he _was_ hungry, and whether he was to make his escape or remain a prisoner he might as well eat meanwhile. It was evident that Chester had intended that he should not suffer for want of food, for on the big tray were soup and fish and roast lamb and three vegetables, milk, bread and butter, rhubarb pie, ice cream and cake. Sam’s face cleared.
“Gee,” he muttered, “this beats school feed!”
He bore the tray across to the bed and placed it on the mattress. Then he pulled a chair in front of it and began to eat. He did full justice to that repast. The viands weren’t very hot, and the ice cream _had_ melted somewhat, but Sam wasn’t fussy and everything tasted awfully good to him. If, he reflected, his absence from the pitcher’s box wasn’t endangering the success of the team, he would be quite content. Twenty minutes later the dinner was only a pleasant memory, and Sam, his hunger amply satisfied, looked longingly at the bed and for a moment the stern voice of duty grew very dim. But to his credit he heroically resisted the allurement of the mattress and once more put his mind on the problem of escape.
The door was out of the question, and so was the transom. To cut his way through a wall was impracticable, since by the time he had made a hole large enough to crawl out by the game would be over. Remained, then, only the window. He examined that carefully. The lower sash was raised and Sam put out a hand and tentatively tried the wire screen. It didn’t seem very firm, and, putting all his strength against a lower corner, he pushed. It gave. Hopefully he looked around for something with which to batter it. Fortunately the bed, an inexpensive wooden one, had slats, and in a trice Sam was working with one against the edge of the screen. Out came a staple. Sam put the end of the slat between screen and clapboard and pried. It was easy now. In ten minutes he had the lower part of the wire netting bent out and upward and he was viewing the situation despondently with his head and shoulders out of the window. Below him, almost twenty feet distant, was the ground. To complicate matters, a picket fence ran along behind the stable at a distance of about eighteen inches. If he could be certain of landing on the farther side of the fence, in the next yard, the drop might be feasible, but to land on the pickets didn’t appeal to Sam. If he had a rope, he reflected, escape would be simple. But there was nothing of the sort at hand, and there wasn’t even a sheet or blanket on the bed. He might rip the cover off the mattress, cut it in strips and tie the strips together, he reflected, and so lower himself to the ground. But that would take a long time and it was already twenty minutes to two.