"He'd nothing to fight with," said Jamison heavily. He had been facing the same problem Bell had worked on desperately, and had found no answer. But he shuddered a little as he looked about the island.
There was nothing in sight but rock. No moss. No lichens. Not even stringy grass or the tufty scrub bushes that seemed able to grow anywhere.
Bell untied The Master, carefully but without solicitude. The little man sat up, and brushed himself off carefully, and arranged himself in a comfortable position.
"I am an old man," said The Master in mild reproach. "You might at least have given me a cushion to sit upon."
Bell sat down and lighted a cigarette with fingers that did not tremble in the least.
"Suppose," he said hardly, "you talk. First, of what your poison is made. Second, of what the antidote is made. Third, how we may be sure you tell the truth."
he Master looked at him with bright, shrewd, and apparently kindly old eyes.
"Hijo mio," he said mildly, "I am an old man. But I am obstinate. I will tell you nothing."