CHICK’S FELLOW PRISONER.
We must go back to the early morning, at Crownledge, to find out how
Marcos and Chick had been kidnapped in the very midst of their friends.
The only thing Chick knew was that, when he had taken the power boat
back to its owner, Joe Travers, he was coming up through the grounds of
the big residence, and suddenly found himself overpowered by several
men whom he could not see.
A sandbag knocked him nearly senseless, and then a bag was pulled over
his head and he was carried some little distance, until he felt himself
in a boat, rocking rather violently.
He soon recovered entire consciousness, but found his arms bound so
tightly outside the sack that he could not move.
There was rather a long trip on the boat, which, from its sound and
motion, he soon knew to be a power launch, and then he was made to step
ashore and walk up a hill.
A ride in a motor car, followed by a short trip in a rowboat, was
Chick’s experience. He was thrown into some chamber, the dampness of
which penetrated the sack and his other clothing, and sent a chill
through him. Before he was left alone the ropes were taken from his
arms.
He heard a door slam while struggling to get the sack off his head and
shoulders.
When he did release himself, he did not find that he could see much
better, although some chinks of light showed here and there and
convinced him that he was in a cellar.
It must be remembered that Chick had not seen the outside world during
any part of his captivity. The sack was a thick one. Moreover, he had
been in a horizontal position in both boats.
Even in the automobile he had been compelled to lie in the bottom, with
his shoulders resting against the seat.
The fact that he had a great deal of room in the car told him that it
was a large one. But that was not much to go by. There are many makes
of large cars which seem to be identical when one has no chance to look
them over.
Chick noticed that this one rode very easily. Hence he had reason to
suppose it was of an expensive type. Aside from that, he could not have
distinguished it from any of half a dozen high-priced motor cars with
which he was familiar.
“Well, this is cheerful!” thought Chick, as he moved about his cellar
and discovered that there was nothing in it but a heap of sawdust and
a very moldy smell. “Sawdust, eh? That looks as if it might be an ice
house. Let me put on my considering cap, and see whether I can figure
this thing out. I ought to be able to do that, even if I have been
sandbagged.”
He let his thoughts travel back to the moment when he was stricken down
in the grounds of Crownledge, and then, bit by bit, put the evidence
together until he had pieced it out to the present time.
“Let me see!” he murmured. “We had a short ride on a rather rough sea
to begin with. There were the short, choppy waves of the Hudson, and
they got a little longer after a while. Then they shortened up again.
Good!”
He did not speak for a few moments, as he digested this, and sought for
an explanation.
“I have it! They took me down the river a little. Then they crossed.
The choppy waves are at the sides of the river, and the long ones in
the middle. That’s how I know they took me across. Yes, by George!
There’s another thing! We got in the way of a ferryboat and might have
been run down. I’d forgotten that.”
How Chick became aware of that incident, with a bag tied over his
head and shoulders, lying in the bottom of the boat, can be logically
explained.
He had heard the screeching of the ferryboat’s siren, responded to by
the toot of the power boat. Then there had been a great deal of hoarse
language--profane, probably--followed by a jolting of the motor boat
as it was swung around so sharply that it might have upset, followed
by comparative quiet and the steady coughing of the motor as they went
along.
“If we hadn’t been in the middle of the river we should not have been
likely to get in the way of a ferry,” was the way Chick figured it out.
“Well, that means that we came over to Hoboken, or somewhere along the
Jersey side of the river, where a small boat could land. Of course! I
get it now! It’s all an open book!”
He slapped one hand on his knee and actually grinned. He was in a bad
fix, and he knew it. But the thought that he had unraveled a problem,
perhaps as well as it could have been done by Nick Carter himself, gave
him such satisfaction that, for the moment, he cared for nothing else.
“I was yanked out of the boat and put in a motor car,” he continued
half audibly. “Very well! Before I got into the automobile I had to
climb up a hill. That makes it all the more binding. I know the roads
at the top of the hill, and I would bet a hundred dollars that I’m in
the Hackensack meadows somewhere.”
A few minutes more of cogitation, and Chick had decided in what part of
the meadows he was.
“I know a big ice house about halfway between Hoboken and Carlstadt,”
he muttered. “It’s out in the marshes, but you can see it from the
road. Of course! That’s it! I was taken in a boat from the motor car.
They rowed me along some of the creeks between the grass swamps, maybe
through some of them. Anyhow, I can guess where I am. Now, let me see
about getting out.”
Chick uttered this last sentence with perfect coolness and confidence.
He had no fear of being kept a prisoner for long, especially with his
hands and feet free.
That Prince Marcos had been kidnapped at the same time as himself he
had no idea.
It had seemed to Chick that his own capture was the logical result of
the activity of Nick Carter and himself in helping Marcos to escape the
clutches of Solado and Miguel.
The cunning rascals would know that so long as these two clear-sighted,
quick-acting detectives were at large, they could not expect to carry
out their purpose of holding Prince Marcos away from his own country
until they had carried out their treacherous purpose of practically
giving it away to another government.
“They’re pretty shrewd citizens, I reckon,” muttered Chick, as he
surveyed his prison. “But they seem to have slipped a cog this time
when they left me here without any guard or ropes about me. I’ll take
the liberty of opening one of those shutters and going out when the
time comes.”
Chick did not try to do it at once. It was still daylight, and he
knew he would have small chance of escape, even if he got out of the
building, unless he had some means of leaving the meadows.
“As soon as I am outside, they’ll see me, of course,” was his
reflection. “They could bring me down with a bullet, or they could drop
a big stone or chunk of iron on my head, and I’d be all in. I’ll have
to wait till dark. The only thing against it is that they’ll probably
have some scheme cooked up before that to put me out.”
Chick rubbed his chin musingly. He had had experience enough with the
seamy side of humanity to be aware that rascals of the type of Solado
and Miguel were not likely to leave a prisoner loosely guarded unless
they contemplated a coup to his disadvantage when he should attempt to
escape.
It was at this stage of his reflections that he caught the muffled
sound of voices. They seemed to come from a corner of his cellar that
was a little darker than any other part--if that could be possible.
He stepped softly to the corner and listened. At the same time he
detected a dull light close to the wall, which he found came from a
place where the stone partition had slightly crumbled away.
The irregular opening thus made was too close to the other wall for him
to look through, but it permitted the sound of voices to reach him.
He heard only a few words, but they were illuminating. So Chick pressed
his face to the wall, as near as he could get to the hole, to hear more.
All he got as a reward was the sound of a door closing with a bang.
The words that had come to him were in the tones of Miguel, and they
were uttered with a savage vindictiveness that made Chick wish he could
have been in the adjoining cellar to ram them down the speaker’s throat.
“You’ll stay here till you give in--or rot!” was what Miguel told the
prisoner, whoever he might be.
When the door slammed there was silence, and then it came to Chick that
possibly the prisoner might be none other than his beloved chief.
There was no sound reason why it should be Nick Carter who had just
been threatened. On the other hand, it might be he, for, if it was
considered worth while to take Chick prisoner, was it not probable that
Nick had been taken at the same time?
“I’ll have to take a chance,” muttered Chick. “I must find out who is
in that other room.”
He squeezed his head into the angle of the wall, in the vain endeavor
to bring his eyes level with the opening. Then, in strained accents, he
called out:
“Who is in that cellar?”
“Hello!” was the response. “Who is that?”
Chick’s sense of hearing was keen, and at once he knew it was Marcos
answering him.
“Is it Prince Marcos?” he called out cautiously. “Say ‘Yes’ if it is. I
am a friend of his.”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. That was Prince Miguel talking to you just now, was it
not?”
“Who are you?” was the noncommittal rejoinder. “I don’t know you--do I?”
“You ought to. I am Chickering Carter. My boss is Nicholas Carter. We
are both trying to help you get back to Joyalita.”
“Of course!” replied Marcos heartily. “I beg your pardon for not
knowing your voice at first. Have you got a knife?”
“Yes,” answered Chick rather wonderingly. “What can I do with that?”
“Use it, when any one comes down to you,” was the reply. “They’re going
to have an interview with you soon, according to what I was just told.
You will have to do what they tell you, or----”
There was a pause, and Chick waited for several seconds before he burst
out eagerly:
“Well, go on. I have to do as I am told, or--what?”
“You’ll have to fight your way out, and I have always thought a knife
was the best kind of weapon to use for that purpose,” replied Marcos
coolly.