For himself, he bore up bravely under the biting lashes of the whip that curled about his face and legs, leaving great red welts. Eight, nine, ten times, a whip wrapped around him; then, apparently thinking the lad had had enough, the guard who had attacked him desisted.
Jack, braced for still another blow, staggered forward as the man drew back, and evidently believing that the lad was about to attack him, the Russian quickly drew a revolver, reversed the butt and struck Jack over the head. It was a hard blow and the lad fell forward on his face. Once, twice, he tried to regain his feet. Then a wall of blackness descended upon him again and he knew nothing more, while the Russian turned his attention to the other prisoners.
When Jack returned to consciousness the first thing to call itself to his attention was the warmth. His last remembrance was of cold. He tried to think, but for the space of several moments he could not piece together the tangled chain of events that revolved and revolved in his mind.
At length, however, as he took additional note of the pleasing warmth and realized that his feet were no longer numb; that his ears were not frozen and that he could breathe without the sensation of snuffing ice. He was able, piece by piece, to recall what had transpired.
“By Jove!” he said at last. “By rights, I should be lying in an open car and freezing while some great brute of a Russian stood over me with a whip. Wonder where on earth I am?”
He raised himself on one elbow and looked around, but he could see nothing. The place in which he found himself was pitch dark. The lad thought he could now catch the sound of other voices, and he called out:
“Anybody here?”
The lad spoke in English and there was no reply. He asked the same question again, this time in French, and still there was no answer. A third time he tried it, this time speaking in German. He drew an answer at last.
“Yes; Boris Duttsky. Who are you?”
Jack introduced himself in German and in the darkness, and then added;