With incredible strength, the old man gripped the big, floundering sportsman, and yanked him from the bed, where he lay helpless, with his feet tied together, and his right wrist fast to the bed.
"There you are!" remarked Wigmore briskly. "Now, will you be good? Sit up, while I fix the bed. Sit up, do you hear? Then I'll give you your breakfast. You don't deserve it—but I have a tender heart."
He prodded Banks with the toe of his boot. Banks sat up without a word. His rage clouded his mind and deadened his tongue. Wigmore dragged the heavy bedding to the floor, and gazed with admiration at the bedstead. All the slats, save a few at the foot, were hinged in the middle.
"My own invention," said the old man. "Very ingenious, don't you think? But it has done its work, so let it lie. Here are some blankets for you, Banks. Hope you don't object to sleeping on the floor."
He tossed an armful of blankets into his prisoner's lap, and walked briskly from the room. He was back in half a minute, carrying a tray, which he placed on the floor within reach of Bank's free hand.
"Help yourself," he said. Then he went out, shutting the door behind him.
Mr. Banks sat motionless for a full minute, staring at the tray. A small teapot stood there, with steam rising from its spout. It was flanked on the right by a small jug of cream, and on the left by an empty cup. In front squatted a round dish under a cover. At last Banks pulled off his fur cap, and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow with the palm of a grimy hand.
"I suppose the old devil has doped it," he whispered, with a sigh. "Of course he has! What's the good of supposing?"
With an effort, he turned his face away from the teapot and the covered dish. He shifted back a little, so that the rope did not pull on his right arm. He gazed intently at the window, door, walls, and ceiling.
"I must plan a way to get out," he muttered. "I must plan a way to fool this old fiend."