At the rear of the house he rapped. Although he pounded heavily, no one answered his summons. Alarmed by the thought that there was no one at home, he moved around to the front door and rapped again, still without effect. Next he tried the door. To his amazement he found it unlocked, and, when the door swung open, a blank darkness yawned beyond it.
“Hello, somepody!” Carl called, thrusting his head inside. “I’m not a t’ief, or anyt’ing like dot, but I’m in drouple. Hello! Come und led me oudt of der yardt, blease, if you vill be so kindt.”
His voice echoed rumblingly through the interior of the house, but won no response. Hesitatingly, Carl stepped across the threshold. He had matches in his pocket, and they had come through the recent deluge unharmed. With fingers none too steady he scratched one, held the flickering glow above him and peered around.
The next moment his startled eyes encountered an object on the floor that caused him to drop the match from his nerveless fingers and fall back gaspingly against the wall.
CHAPTER XVIII.
DON RAMON ORTEGA.
The object which had so startled the Dutch boy was the figure of a middle-aged man, sprawled at full length on the floor matting. His hands were secured behind him and his feet were bound at the ankles with twisted towels. Over the lower part of his face another towel had been tied, thus effectually preventing outcry.
Carl’s own troubles faded into the background. As he slowly got the whip hand of himself, he struck another match and stepped to the man’s side. The man gurgled incoherently behind the gag and his dark eyes pleaded for immediate release.
“Dere is some tricky bizness here, I guess!” exclaimed Carl. “Don’d be schared of me,” he added to the man, “I’m a friendt, und I vill help you. Schust vait a leedle undil I ged a bedder lighdt.”
There was an oil lamp on a table, and Carl stepped to it and applied a match to the wick. In the glow that presently flooded the room, the Dutch boy returned to the man, knelt down beside him, and removed the towels.