sweet Spring in the South, or would it be the Tombs prison with its
brutal keepers and blighted lives?


CHAPTER III.
THE WOLF ADVISES FLIGHT.

The question was settled in a moment, for a key was thrust into
the lock and the door swung open. The night watchman had
possessed no key when at the door, for which the boy was thankful.
Two persons entered and the door was closed and locked.

"Who's been here?" asked Jimmie, panting from his long climb. "We
heard a voice in this corridor, and met the watchman down below.
He's red-headed about something. That feller's of about as much use
here as a chorus lady painted on the back drop. I told him that
you'd probably gone to sleep over your work. Here, Black Bear," he
continued, with a grin, "meet Mr. Wolf, otherwise Ned Nestor. You
fellers get together right now."

Fremont saw a sturdy boy of little less than eighteen, a lad with
a face that one would trust instinctively. His dark eyes met the
blue ones of the patrol leader steadily. There was no suspicion
of guilt in his manner.

Ned Nestor extended his hand frankly, his strong, clean-cut face
sympathetic. Fremont grasped it eagerly, and the two stood for a
moment looking into each other's eyes.

"I've brought Ned Nestor to talk it over with you," Jimmie said.