Bayard was so utterly confounded that for a few seconds he could not speak. He stood as if he had been turned into a wooden boy, and then, rubbing his eyes and staring hard at the prisoner, to make sure that he was awake, called out in tones indicative of great excitement, “Hank Chase!”
“Yes, it is Hank Chase, and nobody else,” replied the owner of that name, indignantly. “Now, I want to know what you brought me here for, and what you intend to do with me?”
Bayard, who quickly recovered from his bewilderment, leaned forward to take a nearer view of the prisoner, and, paying no heed to his entreaties that he would release him, or at least explain his reasons for having him brought there, walked slowly out of the room, followed by his cousins. After closing and fastening the door, he handed the lantern to Coulte, and began pacing thoughtfully up and down the hold, thrashing his boots with his riding-whip at every step.
“Haven’t we got ourselves into a pretty scrape?” said Seth, after a little pause.
“Shut your mouth!” exclaimed Bayard, savagely.
“Haven’t we, though?” cried Will. “That plan of yours, for getting even with Walter Gaylord, has worked splendidly, hasn’t it? I wish I was a million miles from here. I am going to start for home this very day.”
“So am I,” said his brother.
“Hold your tongues, I say; both of you,” shouted Bayard, raising his riding-whip, as if he had half a mind to use it on them.
“You zee, Meester Payard,” observed Coulte, shrugging his shoulders and waving his hands, as if to say that he was in no way to blame, “my leetle poys have made one big—one magnifique mistake.”