I had thrown the gun aside, and, in spite of a few frantic plunges, succeeded in firmly binding the ankles of the prostrate man together.
“Now, Mas’r Harry,” whispered Tom, “take hold of one arm—hold it tight—and we’ll turn him over on his face, and tie his hands behind his back. Hold tight, for he’s a slippery chap, and he’ll make another fight for it. He got away from me once, but I had him again directly. Now, then, over with him! Here, ask your uncle to hold his legs down.”
There was a heave, a struggle, and then a half-suffocated voice exclaimed:
“Tom! Harry! are you both mad?”
“Oh, Tom!” I ejaculated; “what have you done?”
“Ketched the wrong bird, Mas’r Harry, and no mistake,” muttered Tom, as he hastily set my uncle at liberty. “It was that darkness as done it. He slipped away like an eel just as the light went out.”
“Never mind,” gasped my uncle. “But what muscles you boys have!”
“He did not go towards the entrance,” I whispered excitedly, “and I have his gun. If we are careful we shall have him yet.”
Then I could not help shuddering as I rejoiced over the merciful policy we had determined upon; for I thought how easily we might have caused the death of one of our own party.
“It was an unlucky mistake, lads,” whispered my uncle; “but we must have him, living or dead.”