"Greg, old fellow, you've had us worried," gasped Dick Prescott, sinking to the stone floor beside his friend.
Greg lay on the floor, tightly bound hand and foot, a gag of oakum stuck in his mouth and securely held there by cloth tightly strapped in place.
"Get your knife open, Dave, while I hold the light," ordered Dick. "We've got to have Greg free at once. See how white and sick he looks."
Slash! Dave cut away the gag first of all, picking out all he could of the gag.
"Ugh!" sputtered young Holmes, spitting out shreds of oakum. "You bet I'm sick!"
"How do you feel?" Dick asked anxiously, as Dave rolled Greg over and began to cut away the cords at the lad's wrists.
"Sick!" muttered Greg. "Sick of the very taste of that oakum stuff. Did you ever eat any oakum?"
"Can't say that I did," laughed Dick merrily, now that he knew at last that his chum was safe.
"You haven't missed much," growled Greg.
"There, your hands are free," announced practical Dave. "How long have you been here, Holmesy?"