He attempted to arise, but a strange feeling in his head and in the pit of his stomach caused him to forego the attempt.
“I must be hungry,” he thought. “That’s what I get for going without my dinner. But I’ve been hungry before and never felt this way.”
Somehow or other he didn’t seem able to figure it out, and so he closed his eyes and lay perfectly quiet, with a sense of going to sleep.
The next time he opened his eyes, the whole scene had changed. He was lying on some sort of a coarse bed and by the light that came in through a small grated window in the ceiling, he could see that he was in a good-sized room, the walls of which appeared to be solid stone.
There were several pieces of furniture in the room, consisting of chairs, a table and a chest of
drawers. On the walls were a couple of old-fashioned gun-racks, but no guns. The general impression it gave was not pleasant, and reminded him of some of the old Scotch prisons he had read about in the works of Sir Walter Scott.
“I wonder where I am,” was the first thought that came to his mind. “I’m out of the boat, that’s certain, but how did I get here?”
Again he attempted to arise, and this time found that he was stronger and able to sit up.
He made a careful inspection of the room, and discovered that there was only one door, directly facing the bed, and no windows save the one in the ceiling. Then he happened to think of his revolver, and felt for it. It was gone, but his holster and belt, filled with cartridges, still remained about his waist.
“I’m in a jolly nice fix,” he muttered to himself, and, for want of anything better to do, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, still wondering what had happened.