But, not so very greatly to their surprise, this proved to be a hard thing to do. As soon as they stopped at any one spot and began to talk, some member of the crew—many of whom Tom recognized as having occupied the camp in the canyon—happened along on some errand or other, apparently accidental. Of course, there was little doubt that they had been told to overhear all they could and report it to their leader.
“Have you any idea where we are bound?” inquired Tom, not caring much whether a man who had just come up ostensibly to coil a rope heard him or not.
“Not the slightest,” rejoined Mr. Chillingworth, “unless it can be to that island of Simon Lake’s—or rather of the syndicate engaged in this rascally business.”
Tom’s face fell.
“Once they get us there,” he said disconsolately, “we won’t stand much chance of getting away again till they wish it.”
“That is so,” agreed Mr. Chillingworth, in an equally gloomy tone; “yet what are we to do?”
He sank his voice.
“I have thought over a dozen plans of escape, but none of them will bear analysis. It looks as if we are absolutely in this rascal’s power.”
“Why not hail a passing vessel—provided one comes near enough?” suggested Tom. “Surely our signals would attract attention.”
“If we could make them—yes,” rejoined Mr. Chillingworth, “but you don’t suppose, do you, that they would give us such an opportunity? Why the minute one of us sprang on that rail to wave for help we would be knocked down and perhaps badly injured.”