The Irishman disappeared for a few moments.
When he returned he held a stout cord in his hand, with which the two bound the young machinist securely, hands and feet.
"We'll leave him here for the present," said Corrigan, when they had finished their work. "Come on," and taking up the lantern, which in spite of its rough usage still remained lit, he led the way up stairs followed by Mosey.
"Well, I'm in a pretty fix, and no mistake," was Jack's mental decision when alone. "So far, my exertions to gain freedom haven't amounted to anything. But if they think that I'm going to give up already, they are mistaken."
He tugged at the cords, and by a strong effort managed, though not without painful squeezing, to pull his feet free.
His hands, however, were placed altogether too closely to allow of a similar proceeding, and he endeavored to find some means of cutting the fastening.
He remembered that the latch of the door was a rusty one, and rough on its lower side. Walking over to this, he began to rub the cord along the edge in the hope of severing it, but the improvised saw--if it might be called such--was not a handy tool, and half an hour passed before he made any material progress.
"It's mighty slow work," he said to himself: "but it's bound to wear away sooner or later."
Presently a heavy step sounded outside on the stairs, and a moment later Andy Mosey pitched into the room.
He was in a sad state of intoxication, and his face was red with anger.