“As yez don’t drink, Oi’ll take a sup fer yez,” he said, and took a deep potion.
“What are you fellows doing up here, Grogan?” asked Bob, as cheerfully as he could.
“Ax me no questions,” muttered Grogan. “If ye want ter think o’ somethin’ cheerful, think o’ how we will trate ye in the marnin’.”
Bob was compelled to shiver, and he became silent. Once more was he in the power of this lawless set of men.
Quarter of an hour dragged by. Grogan sat calmly smoking, with his small eyes fastened on the young photographer. He did not intend to give the youth the first chance to escape.
Bob heard the murmur of voices, and he knew Casco, Barker, and Horning were talking over some matter of importance.
While the time slipped slowly by, Bob heard a distant rumble which came closer and then died away utterly.
“It must have been a train. I did not know we were so close to the tracks,” thought the youth.
Presently Grogan took another drink, and again lit his pipe. But now Bob noticed that the Irishman did not puff so vigorously as before. Was he growing drowsy?
Fervidly the youth hoped so. He watched Grogan as a cat watches a mouse, and he was filled with hope when he saw the man’s pipe fall and the Irishman make no effort to restore it to his mouth.