"Go ahead," answered the broker curtly.
Siwash stepped apart. Matt, with ill-concealed astonishment, saw him push a hand along the hillside and push back a square curtain of canvas painted the color of the yellowish brown of the dried grass. A small window was revealed. To the right of the window another curtain was lifted, disclosing a door. Siwash opened the door and stepped back with an ill-omened grin.
"Conduct the gent inter the hang-out, Murg," he leered.
"Go on," ordered Murgatroyd, touching Matt with the muzzle of the rifle.
"What kind of a place is this?" asked Matt, hesitating.
"Look at it from the inside an' mebby ye'll have a better notion of it," answered Siwash, grabbing Matt's arm and hustling him through the doorway.
Motor Matt's heart sank when he looked around at the earthen walls of the excavation. It looked like a prison, and undoubtedly it was to be a prison for him.
"I'll make him lay down on the shelf," observed Siwash, "an' tie him thar."
"Put him in a chair and tie him to that," said Murgatroyd. "He'll have to lie down at night, and change of position will be something of a rest for him. I don't want to be any rougher than we have to."
"Bah!" snorted Siwash. "From the way ye talk, Murg, a person 'u'd think ye had a weak heart. But I know diff'rent. I shouldn't think ye'd be so onreasonable when ye stop ter think o' the hole this feller's got us both inter."