oon enough. In the meantime I'll take a look
around. Water! That's right--I am thirsty. Funny how you forget that
when you're excited." Bud was talking to himself now. There are
people who seem to be able to puzzle things out better if the problem
is put into words than if they just revolve it over in their minds.
Bud was one of these, and as he investigated his prison he kept talking
in a low tone to himself.

With the shades up he was able to get a better view of the room. It
was small, and had only that one window in it. The furniture consisted
of a chair and a table. The floor was bare. The walls were painted a
dull gray. Bud pushed experimentally against one of the sides, but to
no purpose. It was as solid as iron.

There was one more thing to be tried, that was the door. Bud was
reconciled to spending at least the morning within the room, and it
made very little difference to him whether the door was of oak, as
"Sam" had said, or some softer wood. However, he thought, he might as
well take a crack at it. Try anything once, he reasoned.

He walked over and turned the knob softly. It refused to budge an
inch. Then Bud applied more pressure. This time it turned slowly.
Hope rang in Bud's heart as he felt the latch click back, then as he
remembered hearing the door bolted his heart sank again. Still he
turned the knob as far as it would go, and pushed. The door opened
about half an inch.

Then it stuck. Bud's hand dropped from the knob, and he ran his
fingers along the crack. Half way up they encountered cold metal--a
chain which allowed the door to open only a little, then held. Bud
seemed as securely fastened as though he had been unable to budge the
door at all. Then he thought it was possible the bolt worked on a
slide, and if he could reach through the crack and ease it out of the
slide, he would be free.

"A knife would do the trick," he thought. "Nothing like that around
here. I wonder if my belt buckle would do?" He tried forcing it
through the crack. "Nope. Not long enough. Isn't there something
about the room I could use? Chair--that's no good. Neither is the
table. Water pitcher--can't see what good that is. Porcelain, I
guess." He ran his hand over the pitcher.

"Yep. Well, that doesn't seem to help. Unless--" he hesitated. A
thought struck him. "If I could break it and use a piece of it like a
knife I'll bet I could scrape that bolt over! But how can I break