He had hardly reached the bottom when Smiler was tumbling beside him. The boy ran over to a corner of the cellar. Phil followed.
A huddled bundle lay on the damp ground. Phil dropped beside it and turned it over, setting down his lantern.
It was the unconscious form of Jim Langford, trussed with knotted ropes until it looked more like a bale of cast-off clothing than a human being. Jim’s face was white and all bloody-streaked at the forehead and mouth.
Phil took out his knife and slashed at the ropes. He chafed the arms and legs. He tossed his hat to Smiler and said one word:
“Water!”
Smiler ran off up the ladder and was back in less than a minute.
Phil seized the hat and splashed some of the cold water on the upturned face, wiping the blood from Jim’s mouth with his handkerchief.
After a bit, Jim sighed and opened his eyes. Phil held his hat to the oozy lips and Jim drank greedily. Soon he was all alert. He sprang to his feet, staring around him wildly.
“Damn them, the Siwashes! Damn them,––they got me! And they’ve got awa’.”
Then he sagged at the knees and collapsed.