“What a blood-thirsty ruffian!” Philip thought, trembling.
Temple opened the door of a closet, which was filled with a variety of articles, including a small supply of kitchen utensils.
He took out a case-knife, to the horror of poor Philip, who concluded he was to be butchered in cold blood. Still, he did not dare to leave his seat, lest his jailer’s threat should be carried into execution. He was happily undeceived, however, for from the floor of the closet Temple lifted a portion of a clothesline, and with some difficulty, for the knife was dull, cut off a portion. Then he turned to Philip.
“I can’t stay here to stand guard over you, boy,” he said, “but I don’t mean that you shall get away in a hurry. I think I have found a way to prevent your escaping.”
He approached the boy, and said:
“Hold out your hands.”
“What are you going to do to me, Mr. Temple?” asked Philip, nervously.
“Tie you,” answered his captor, sententiously. “What do you suppose ropes are made for?”
“Please don’t tie me,” said Philip, in dismay. “I won’t run away.”
“No, I don’t think you will. Hold out your hands.”