A PRISONER
Tom was in sort of a daze for the first few moments following the
unexpected and violent attack on him, an attack culminating in his
being bound so that he could hardly move.
Dimly, and almost uncomprehendingly, he heard voices murmuring about
him--he could hear the voices of men above the howl of the gale that
seemed to continue with unabated fury.
Gradually Tom’s senses cleared. The haze that seemed to envelope his
mind passed away and he began to realize that he must not submit dumbly
to this indignity. He first strained lightly at his bonds, as if to
test them. The sack was still over his head, so he could not see, and
there was a horribly stuffy and suffocating feeling about it.
Tom’s effort to loosen his bonds, slight as it was, had the effect of
starting his blood up in a better circulation, and this helped him to
think better and more quickly.
“I’ve got to get out of this!” he told himself energetically. “This
won’t do at all! I wonder who the scoundrels are who have caught me
this way?”
But Tom did not stop then to argue out that question. He wanted to
devote all his time to getting himself loose. With that in view, he put
forth all his strength. He was lying on his back, in a bank of snow, he
judged, and he now strained his arms and legs with all his might.
But he might just as well have saved his strength. Those who had tied
the bonds about him knew their evil business well, and poor Tom was
like a roped steer. Not only was he unable to loosen the bonds on his
arms and legs, but he found the effort hurt him, and made him almost
suffocate, because of the gag and the closeness of the bag over his
head.
Then he heard voices speaking again.
“He’s coming to,” said someone--a vaguely familiar voice.
“Yes, but he’ll have to come a great deal harder than that to get
away,” was the answer, and someone chuckled. Tom wished he could hit
that person, whoever he was. His gun had either fallen or been knocked
from his hand at the first attack.
“Well, what are we going to do with him?” asked the voice that had
first spoken.
“Wait until----” but the rest of the sentence Tom did not hear, for
the wind set up a louder howling at that point, and the words were
borne away with it. Then, too, Tom was at a disadvantage because of the
bag over his ears.
He felt himself being lifted up, and placed in a more comfortable
position, and he was glad of that, for he felt weak and sick. It must
be remembered that aside from a little coffee that morning, he had had
no breakfast, and that he had had little or no sleep the night before.
With a scant supper, a battle with the storm, the anxiety about being
lost, and having led his friends, unconsciously enough, into a scrape,
it was no great wonder that Tom was not altogether himself.
“But who in the world has captured me, and what do they want of me?”
Tom asked himself. He had an idea it might, perhaps, be some of the
half-breed Indians who had caught him for the sake of his gun and
clothing. Or perhaps some trapper or guide was guilty.
But if they were after his gun, or what money he carried, or even the
fine mackinaw he wore, why did they not take those things and make off
into the woods? That would at least leave Tom free.
But the men remained on guard over the bound figure of the boy, now
sitting upright on a bank of snow. Tom could dimly hear them moving
about. They were evidently waiting for someone.
“But if they wait long enough, the fellows may come to look after me,”
Tom reasoned. “Jack, George, and Bert will know how to deal with these
scoundrels.”
Then he reflected that the other lads would not know where he was
unless he fired his gun, and he could not do that. If one of the
others--Bert, Jack or George--found the road, they would not know where
Tom was.
“Unless the dog could lead me to them, or them to me,” he mused. “I
wonder where Towser is, anyhow?”
Tom’s last view of the animal had been when it darted into a bush,
after some rabbit, perhaps. Then had come the sudden attack. If the dog
had returned, Tom did not know of it. He only hoped the animal would
“raise some sort of row,” as he put it.
But there was no evidence of Towser. Tom could hear only the now
low-voiced talk of two men, and the rush of the wind. That it was still
snowing he was quite sure, and he wondered what his companions were
doing.
Suddenly he became aware of some new element that entered into his
predicament. One of the men exclaimed:
“Here he comes now!”
“That’s good!” responded the other, and there seemed to be relief in
his tones.
“I didn’t see anything of him,” called the newcomer. “I saw the
others--they’ve separated, all right, but Fairfield----”
“He’s here! We’ve got him!” was the triumphant rejoinder of one of the
men near Tom. “Got him good and proper!”
“You have! That’s the ticket. Now we’ll see what the old man has to
say. I guess he’ll pony up all right.”
Tom felt a shock as though someone had thrown cold water over him.
That voice!
Tom knew now. It was Professor Skeel.
He began to understand. He saw the meaning of many things that had
hitherto puzzled him. The vagueness was clearing away. The plot was
beginning to be revealed.
Was this why Skeel had come to the wilderness of the Adirondacks? Was
this why he and his cronies had been sneaking around the camp cabins?
It seemed so.
“And yet, what in the world can he want of me?” Tom asked himself. “If
it’s revenge for what I did to him, this is a queer way of showing it.
I didn’t think he’d have spunk enough to plot a thing like this, though
he certainly has meanness enough.”
Tom was thinking fast. He was putting together in his mind many
matters that had seemed strange to him. Certain it was that at Skeel’s
instigation he had been made a prisoner, and probably with the help
of Murker and Whalen, though Tom had not seen their faces clearly and
could not be sure of their identity.
“But what’s it all about?” poor Tom asked himself over and over again.
“Why should he make a prisoner of me?”
“Can we carry him?” asked Skeel’s voice. “We’ve got to take him to
the old shack, you know. Can’t leave him here. Besides, there’s some
business to attend to in connection with him. Can you carry him through
the snow?”
“Sure,” was the answer. “He isn’t so heavy. Up on your shoulders with
him, Whalen, and we’ll follow the professor. I’m all turned about in
this storm!”
Tom was sure, then, of the identity of his three captors. He was as
sure as though he had seen them.
A moment later he found himself being lifted up, and he could feel that
the men were adjusting him to their shoulders. It was no easy task,
for Tom was rather heavy, and his clothing, for he was dressed warmly
for the cold, made an additional burden. But the men were strong, it
seemed.
“Shall we take that off?” asked one of the men. Tom had an idea he
referred to the head-covering bag.
“No, better leave it on until we get farther off. Some of the others
might see him,” was Skeel’s answer. Tom felt sure he referred to the
bag.
“I wish they’d take this gag out of my mouth,” Tom mused. “I don’t care
so much for the bag. But my tongue will feel like a piece of leather in
a little while.”
On through the storm Tom was carried, on the shoulders of the two men.
In fancy he could see the former instructor leading the way.
“He spoke of the old shack,” mused Tom. “I wonder if he means the
deserted cabin where we were? If he takes me there, the boys will have
a better chance of finding me if they look.”
But Tom was soon to know that it was not to the deserted hut he was
being carried. For the journey soon came to an abrupt termination. The
young prisoner felt himself being carried into some building, for he
was lowered from the men’s shoulders.
“They never could have reached the old cabin in this time,” Tom decided
to himself. “They must have brought me to some new place. I wonder what
will happen now?”
Tom felt himself laid on some sort of bed or bunk. Then he heard a
door closed and locked.
“Well, we’ve got him just where we want him,” said Skeel. “Now we’ll go
ahead with our plans.”
And the prisoner wondered what those plans were.