He put the bills into his pocket, after which Paul was thrown into the cave. A large stone lying near was rolled against the entrance, and Paul’s capture was complete.
Hour after hour passed till the boy knew it must be after midnight. Then the men prepared to leave.
“I reckon you’ll be comfortable there for some time, bub,” said one, as they moved away. “You can thank your lucky stars that we didn’t kill you.”
The next moment they were gone. Paul tugged at the bandage confining his wrists.
“I must get away and warn Mr. Bolton,” he reflected excitedly. “They may kill him.”
But the handkerchief was well tied, and he could not weaken it.
“What shall I do?” he cried desperately. “I must get away.”
Then an idea flashed into his mind. He rolled over, with his back against the rock, and, despite the pain, began rubbing the handkerchief against it.
His hands were soon bruised and bleeding, but he kept on, until finally the linen was worn through, and dropped off.
He groped his way to the entrance, and tried to move the rock. He could not budge it. He sank back again with a groan of dismay.