"Gr-r-rr!" snarled the chief. "Let you go! Likely, ain't it? Now, you stay here while we go upstairs and write a little note to your old man. You can add something that'll make them hurry up with the tin!"
"Or it's the South American mines for you!" grated Snyder, approaching his face closely to Redisham's.
"And no funny business," added the chief warningly, taking the lamp and looking back as he closed the door. "You stay here like a good kid, an' remember it's no use singing out. Mind you're here when we come back or—"
He touched the butt of his revolver significantly, and closed the door. Dense darkness shut down on the miserable Redisham.
When he had waited twenty minutes in the same position, he was under the impression that he had waited several hours. He had never experienced anything like the dead, changeless silence that now reigned. For what seemed an age there was no sound—not even the smallest sound. And then, feeling that he would scream out if he did not do something, he commenced to explore his surroundings. He collided with an immense table, on which were piled boots—in incredible quantities. He could make nothing of this mystery. At every stage it became more and more weird. Boots! What could that mean? He was still wondering when he barged into something solid, and it went over with an ear-splitting crash. For some seconds there was silence. Then came footsteps; the door opened.
"I wasn't trying to get out!" he protested feebly; and then his jaw fell. The figure before him was Mr. Glenister, of Salmon's, and the young master was carrying a candle!
[CHAPTER XII]
BILLY WALKS IN HIS SLEEP
Redisham did not pause a moment. He flung himself forward, grasped the amazed master round the waist, and held on with all his strength.