“Hah! I thought so,” said Ned with a low chuckle of satisfaction. “Now catch hold of the knife and cut the band round your ankles.”
“I can hardly feel the handle,” muttered Jack.
“You will directly. Look sharp, sir, sharp as your knife.”
“Yes,” said Jack, “but I’m going to cut your wrists free first.”
“No, no, sir; your legs.”
Jack set his teeth again as hard as when he was holding the back of the knife-blade, and in response he took hold of Ned’s hand with his left and applied the edge across the cane which held the poor fellow’s wrists, and in a clumsy fumbling way began to saw downward.
“Mr Jack, Mr Jack!” whispered the man excitedly, “you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t! I wanted to get you cut loose first.”
“You hold your tongue and keep still,” said the lad. “I don’t want to cut your wrist. Steady. Oh, how numb and helpless my hands feel.”
“They cut well enough, sir,” said Ned with a laugh, as the outer turn of the cane band was divided, and once more the tough vegetable cord opened like a spiral string.
“That’s your sort, Mr Jack, sir. Give me hold of the knife. My turn now.”