"Tear 'em, boys! Seize 'em, boys!"
The dogs hesitated for only an instant, as the boys met their attack. Then, speedily rallying, they rushed on them once more, with fangs bared and dripping, and sharp, white teeth exposed.
But the brief interval had given Sandy's sharp eyes time to observe something. In one corner of the room was what appeared to be a trap-door. Calling to Jack, he made for it, and raised it by an iron ring affixed to its upper side. It swung back, and the two boys flung themselves through it and slammed it behind them, just as the teeth of the foremost of the dogs almost closed on Jack Dacre.
The place in which they now found themselves was pitchy dark. But Sandy had some matches in his pocket. He kindled one, and the light showed them that they were in an underground tunnel of some sort.
They set off down it at a good speed, not knowing where it would lead them, but with a wild desire to leave those two dogs as far behind as possible. As they sped along, they could hear the creatures searching and whining at the trap-door.
The two lads had progressed for some distance—with alarming results to Sandy's matches—when they came to a door which barred their further progress. It was fitted with a bolt, and after an instant's hesitation, they drew it.
As they did so, and the door swung open, a startling thing happened. A man rushed out like a thunderbolt and sprung straight for Sandy.
"Take that, you rascal!" he cried.
"Hoots mon, what ails ye!" yelled the Scotch lad, for the flicker of the match had enabled him to see that the man was gaunt, cadaverous, and apparently the victim of ill-treatment. They had little to fear from him.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed the man. "I know that voice. Isn't that a lad named Sandy MacTavish?"