“I’ve got him!” cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. “Look sharp with the light.”
Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain.
Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. “Got him?”
“Ay, ay! I’ve got him, sir.”
“That’s right! But do you want to break the poor boy’s ribs? Get off!”
Don’s friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive’s chest, and the bluff man laughed.
“Pretty well done, my lad,” he said. “I might have known you two weren’t so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down.”
The sinister man gripped Don’s arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement.
“Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy,” said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. “You can stop here for a bit. Don’t try any more games.”
He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan.