On one of them a lantern was burning, the rays from which shed only a dismal light over the more dismal scene.
On the other keg sat Amos Badger, with his hands on his knees, his lowering gaze fixed upon the helpless detective, and his dark features wearing a look of mingled satisfaction and sinister scorn.
It was then well into the evening, and Nick Carter had with some difficulty been doctored back to consciousness, and to a keen realization of his aching head and a most unenviable situation.
The restoration had been accomplished by Conley, who was somewhat of a veterinary physician, and it was no sooner done than Badger hastened to interview his captive, an interview only just begun when Nick made the remark which opens this chapter.
“Up to me, is it?” returned Badger, with stern complacency. “Up to me to say what shall be done with you?”
“I cannot see that anything I say would be of weight,” said Nick coolly.
“That’s right—it wouldn’t!”
“Not at present.”
“No, nor later!” sneered Badger sharply. “You’ve had your last say, Carter, now that we have you in our clutches.”