“They won’t know what to think,” reasoned Tom.
Just before dark another meal was served to the prisoner, and then one of the masked men approached the young inventor with a gag in his hands.
“You’ll have to wear this,” he said roughly. “I wouldn’t trust your promise not to yell when we’re crossing the lake. I’m going to fix it so you can’t shout for help!”
And this he did, binding Tom’s mouth securely. It was impossible for him to make himself heard five feet away. Then, when the ropes on his legs and ankles were looked to and made more secure, the prisoner was lifted by two of the men and carried to the larger boat—the one in which the scoundrels had pursued the youth.
He was laid down, with no great gentleness, on one of the side seats, and a little later, under cover of darkness, the trip from Loon Island to the main shore was begun.
Where he was landed Tom did not know—he could not see any familiar landmarks. Nor was he given much time to look about, for no sooner had he been carried out of the boat than he was bundled into a waiting auto and the machine was driven off over a rough road.
By the unevenness of the highway and by the damp smell all about him, Tom concluded that he was being taken through the woods. For an hour or more the journey lasted and then he saw that the machine had stopped in front of a lonely house set in the midst of the trees.
At the sound of the screeching brakes of the auto a door of this house opened, letting out a flood of light, and a voice asked:
“Have you got him?”
“We sure have!” answered Kenny. “Anybody been here?”