The sound of their footsteps had scarcely died away when the sacking over one of the barrels became convulsed by an internal disturbance and fell to the floor; and Jim Linton’s head popped up in the opening, like a Jack-in-the box.
“Come on, Desmond—they’ve gone at last!” he whispered.
Desmond’s head came up cautiously from another barrel.
“Take care—it may be only a blind,” he warned. “They may come back at any moment.”
Jim’s answer was to wriggle himself out of his narrow prison, slowly and painfully. He reached the floor, and stood stretching himself.
“If they come back, I’ll meet them with my hands free,” he said. “Come on, old man; we’re like rats in a trap if they catch us in those beastly tubs. At least, out here, we’ve our knives and our fists. Come out, and get the stiffness out of your limbs.”
“Well, I suppose we may as well go under fighting if we have to,” Desmond agreed.
Jim helped him out, and they stood looking at each other. They were a sorry-looking pair. Their clothes hung in rags about them; they were barefoot and hatless, and, beyond all belief, dirty. Thin to emaciation, their gaunt limbs and hollow cheeks spoke of terrible privations; but their sunken eyes burned fiercely, and there was grim purpose in their set lips.
“Well—we’re out of the small traps, but it seems to me we’re caught pretty securely in a big one,” Desmond said presently. “How on earth are we going to get out of this pepper-pot?”
“We’ll explore,” Jim said. Suddenly his eye fell on a package lying on an empty box, and he sprang towards it, tearing it open with claw-like fingers.