“Pards,” said the Texan, “it seems to me that we are going to get a-plenty hungry before we leave this corral. We are some likely to starve here. The joke is on us.”
“Hush!” cautioned Merry. “Listen!”
As they stood still in the dense darkness of that chamber they heard a muffled voice speaking in English. It seemed to be calling to them derisively.
“You’re very courageous, Frank Merriwell,” mocked the voice; “but see what your courage has brought you to. Here you are trapped, and here you will die!”
“Hello!” muttered Merry. “So my friend, Felipe Dulzura, is near at hand!”
The situation was one to appall the stoutest heart, but Frank Merriwell was not the one to give up as long as there was the slightest gleam of hope. Indeed, in that darkness there seemed no gleam. It is not wonderful that even stout-hearted Brad Buckhart began to feel that “the jig was up.”
In most times of danger, perplexity, or peril, Dick relied solely on himself and his own resources; now, however, having Frank at hand, he turned to him.
“Is there any chance for us to escape?”
“Boys,” said Merry, “we must not think of giving up until we have made every effort in our power. The first thing to be done is to sound the walls. You can help me in this. Go around the walls, rapping on them and listening. See if you can find a hollow place. This is not the donjon, and it may have been originally intended for something different from a prison room.”
Directed by him, they set about their task, sounding the walls. Hopeless enough it seemed as they went knocking, knocking through the darkness. When the room had been circled once and no discovery made, Buckhart seemed quite ready to give up the effort in that direction. Frank was not satisfied, but continued feeling his way along the walls, rapping and listening as he went. Finally he remained a long time in one place, which aroused the curiosity of his boy comrades.