“I shall send you back into that lock-up place below, and perhaps put you in irons,” said the man sternly. “Be content with what I am doing for you. Now then, up with you, quick!—”
There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a heavy heart Don followed the man with the lanthorn as he led the way to the next floor, Jem coming next, and a guard of two well-armed men and their bluff superior closing up the rear.
The floor they reached was exactly like the one they had left, and they ascended another step ladder to the next, and then to the next.
“There’s a heap of bags and wrappers over yonder to lie down on, my lads,” said the bluff man. “There, go to sleep and forget your troubles. You shall have some prog in the morning. Now, my men, sharp’s the word.”
They had ascended from floor to floor through trap-doors, and as Don looked anxiously at his captors, the man who carried the lanthorn stooped and raised a heavy door from the floor and held it and the light as his companions descended, following last and drawing down the heavy trap over his head.
The door closed with a loud clap, a rusty bolt was shot, and then, as the two prisoners stood in the darkness listening, there was a rasping noise, and then a crash, which Don interpreted to mean that the heavy step ladder had been dragged away and half laid, half thrown upon the floor below. Then the sounds died away.
“This is a happy sort o’ life, Mas’ Don,” said Jem, breaking the silence. “What’s to be done next? Oh! My head, my head!”
“I don’t know, Jem,” said Don despondently. “It’s enough to make one wish one was dead.”
“Dead! Wish one was dead, sir? Oh, come. It’s bad enough to be knocked down and have the headache. Dead! No, no. Where did he say them bags was?”
“I don’t know, Jem.”