His position, it must be confessed, was an unenviable one.
“I’m in a living tomb,” he groaned, and as the rats, mice, insects and other creeping things now began to nibble him in every part of the body, and with great industry, he shouted out with horror and positive pain.
Crouched up as he was, and sitting almost like a tailor upon his curled-up legs, he had no power to move.
Wherever he thrust forth his hand it came in contact with some slimy, creeping thing, which made the blood curdle in his veins.
To add to his misery, he now heard the voices of Wildfire Ned, Bob Bertram and Lieutenant Garnet shouting to their followers in tones of triumph.
Next followed a rousing cheer from the lusty sailors as they left the spot in pursuit of their grim and stubborn enemies.
Tim shouted again and again with his utmost power.
But his voice died away, and was not heard in the noise and confusion which reigned on every side.
“I’m lost! I’m lost!” he cried, and gave way to despair.
All was now quiet around the old cypress tree.