Martin was at once aware of sounds of movement on the floor above—sounds of heavy cases or bales being dragged over the boards. At intervals also he heard a creaking that suggested the lowering of goods over a rusty pulley.
“Where am I?” he thought.
The sounds lulled, and his ears caught a slight rustle in the room itself.
“Rats!” he said to himself. “I hope they won’t attack me.”
During the next pause in the louder sounds he heard another rustle somewhat more prolonged, a faint clanking, and he had the strange feeling that some human being besides himself was in the room. Startled, he called out quickly: “Who’s there?”
From some distant corner came a thin, piping voice:
“Me, Gundra.”
“Gundra!” He felt surprise and relief; the Indian boy was at least a friend. “Come and untie me.”
“Me no can,” was the reply.
“Why not?”