Frank was relieved, although he could not understand why they did not finish the job by killing him without delay.
He drew in deep breaths, but the air of the place was none too pure.
Already his jaws were aching from the strain of the gag, which forced them wide apart. He made desperate but ineffectual efforts to dislodge that gag and force it from his mouth.
There was bare, damp ground beneath his body, and this led him to believe himself in a cellar.
He thought how, not a month before, he had been in a similar predicament in Tangier, and how a girl had come to his rescue.
“But there is no girl in Paris who will do that,” thought the unfortunate boy.
He thought of Harvey Wynne, and wondered why the young newspaper correspondent had deserted him in his time of peril. A feeling of disappointment came upon him. He had thought better of Wynne than that; he had believed the reporter was made of the right kind of stuff.
Now that it was past, he thought of many ways in which he might have escaped from the Red Flag. If he had done this thing, or the other, they would not have captured him as they did.
Frank did not remain there more than ten or fifteen minutes before it seemed that he would die from the terrible pain in his jaws, which were held rigidly by the hard gag. He could not close his mouth to swallow, and it seemed that his throat was filling and he would strangle.
“This is really a very jolly little time!” he thought. “This gagging business makes it just a trifle unpleasant, however.”