As he opened his eyes wider he saw that he was being carried along under trees and over rising ground.
Then his thoughts became clearer and he felt certain it was none other than Captain Jonas French who was carrying him. Some one else, probably Alvarez, was treading the ground behind him.
Halstead gave a sigh, then murmured:
“Put me down!”
They were luckless words, for French vented but the one syllable, “Right,” then dropped him to the ground and sat on him.
“Don’t make the mistake of trying to make any noise, either,” growled the once florid-faced one. “No one could hear you here except us, but we’ll take noise as an evidence of unkind disposition on your part.”
“Tie him,” murmured Don Emilio, standing over the boy.
Without making any response in words, French rolled the boy over on his face. Tom didn’t attempt to resist. He was too weak; his strength was just beginning to come back. French knotted a rope around his wrists, held behind him, then quickly lashed the young skipper’s ankles together.
“And this!” insisted Alvarez. A gag composed of two handkerchiefs was forced between Halstead’s lips and made fast there.
“Now, my meddling boy, you may be as unpleasant as you please,” mocked Don Emilio Alvarez, bending over and smiling into Halstead’s face. “Ah, you have been troublesome to us—very. And you have inquired what I would do to you if I had you down in Honduras, where they do things differently. Ah, well! Perhaps, my meddling boy, you shall discover what I would do to you! Will you, my large friend, lift him and carry him on again? We are not far from the place where we can keep him securely enough.”