“God help me!”
He was frightened, but still he controlled his nerves and did not utter a single cry of terror. He knew it was useless, and he would not give those ruffians the satisfaction of hearing him shout for help. If die he must, he would die without squealing!
But he did not want to die. He was young, and life seemed good to him. It was an awful thing to be blotted out of existence in a fraction of a second—to be utterly destroyed in all his health and strength.
He felt weak and unable to move so much as his head. Had he been free he would have fought like a tiger even though he were facing odds that meant certain annihilation in the end. But it was soul-crushing to be destroyed thus, utterly helpless, without the ability to lift a hand to save himself.
He twisted his neck about and looked over his shoulder at the fuse, seeing the smoke rising behind him, seeing the spark of fire creeping steadily and swiftly toward the powder that would blow him into eternity.
Then he tried to reach it with his teeth and tear it from the barrel. He tipped far back and grasped at it, but missed it. With frantic haste he tried again, for the fuse was growing short with fearful swiftness. In a few more moments it would not be long enough for him to reach with his mouth.
A shadow darkened the window; a voice called:
“Mr. Merriwell, are you there?”
“Here!” gasped Frank. “Quick—save me! The fuse—the powder! It will——”
Crack!—a revolver spoke. The person outside had fired through the window, and the bullet had cut off the burning end of the fuse just as the fire was about to run down into the barrel.