When Silent Swanson aroused himself from the effects of the blow on the head from the beer mallet in the hands of the treacherous bartender, he sat up feebly and found himself in semi-darkness.
"Someone crowned me with a crowbar," he muttered to himself as his brain gradually began to work normally. "They must have kicked me after I went down."
A faint groan from the heavy shadows near him startled him into a realization of what had happened. He felt around for a moment and his fingers touched the body of a man huddled against a wall.
"It must be Ken—and he's hurt," he muttered, and crept toward his companion. Swanson worked over him, shaking and speaking to him and presently Kennedy stirred and sat up against the wall.
"Where are we? What happened?" he inquired in a bewildered manner.
"Search me," replied Swanson mournfully. "I was just getting ready to swing the haymaker on that big fellow when the house fell. I think someone beaned me from behind with a brick and then kicked us around. Ouch—my ribs feel stoved in."
"I'm sore all over," moaned Kennedy. "That fellow didn't do it all by himself, did he?"
"I have a dim recollection of hearing someone tell him to fix us right," replied Swanson. "I may have dreamed it."
"Let's get out of here," urged Swanson suddenly. "If some watchman finds us here we'll be pinched, and it will make a nice story for the reporters."
"Where do you think we are?" asked Kennedy, striving to get to his feet and groaning with every move.