"Whist, lad! Dinna be downcast. Tom will turn oop—like a bad penny—not that he is one, but in a manner of speaking. I'm sure he's all right. He will look out for himself and rescue us, too, I'll bet ye a siller bit."
"I hope you are right, Sandy, but this is surely a disastrous ending to what promised to be a pleasure trip."
"There's a linin' of bonnie gold to every cloud," comforted the philosophical Sandy. "But," he added with Scotch candor, "I'm blessed if I can see aught but the cloud the noo'."
There was silence for a time.
"Let's explore this place a bit," suggested Jack presently.
"Too dark," responded Sandy, "we might fall into some trap-door or hole."
"We can feel our way with our hands—oh!" and Jack almost laughed at his mistake—"mine are handcuffed."
"Mine, too, but I hadna' forgotten the fact," said Sandy dryly.
"I suppose, then, we must wait here till somebody comes."
"I guess that's aboot it. It's no' vera cheerful, but it can't be helped, as the man said when they were gangin' to hang him."