“This is a prison!”
“Now what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know if you chaps understand English,” said a languid voice from the gloom, “but you might let a fellow sleep in peace.”
For the first time, the two prisoners saw that they were not alone. Lying on a bed in the corner of the cell was a somewhat dilapidated young man, who gazed at them wearily out of one resentful eye.
“My goodness!” said Danstor nervously. “Do you suppose he’s a dangerous criminal?”
“He doesn’t look very dangerous at the moment,” said Crysteel, with more accuracy than he guessed.
“What are you in for, anyway?” asked the stranger, sitting up unsteadily. “You look as if you’ve been to a fancy-dress party. Oh, my poor head!” He collapsed again into the prone position.
“Fancy locking up anyone as ill as this!” said Danstor, who was a kind-hearted individual. Then he continued, in English, “I don’t know why we’re here. We just told the policeman who we were and where we came from, and this is what happened.”
“Well, who are you?”
“We’ve just landed—”