“Come, sir, come!” cried Ned, lifting him; “can’t you stand?”
“I—what has happened?” asked the inventor thickly. He stared about him with a blank look.
“You’ve been drugged by rascals, but I’m going to get you out of here,” rejoined Ned; “come, sir; rouse up. Ah, that’s better,” as the inventor, with the lad’s aid, got to his feet. He stood staggeringly, and then Ned, as gently as he could, half-dragged, half-carried him to the window.
“Have to lift him through,” thought Ned, as Mr. Lockyer gazed blankly about him. Evidently he had little knowledge of what was happening.
Putting his strong, young arms about the inventor’s slight form, Ned lifted him through the window. Then he followed.
“A fighting chance,” he breathed, as, gathering up Lockyer in his arms, he began a staggering run across the heavy sands. Coarse grass grew upon the island, which bothered him a good deal, but in the emergency before him, Ned seemed endowed with superhuman strength.
“A fighting chance,” he breathed, as, gathering up Lockyer in his arms, he began a staggering run across the heavy sands.
As one direction seemed as good as another, he did not pay much heed to where he was going. Before long he reached the margin of the island. At least, he could hear the ripple of tiny waves on the beach.
“Good land,” breathed the lad to himself, setting down Mr. Lockyer’s limp form, “it will be child’s play to find us now. If only there were some way to escape from the island, but I guess there isn’t, and we’re out of the frying pan into the fire.”