INTO THE RIVER
Slowly and painfully, with a dull ache in his head, and an uncertain
look in his eyes, Jack returned to his senses. A thin stream of blood
trickled down his neck, and putting up his hand he felt a large lump
under the hair.
"It must have been Mosey who struck me," was his first thought as he
gathered his scattered faculties together. "Well, thank God, he didn't
kill me."
It was some time before he felt any desire to rise, and when he finally
did so, he found himself weaker than he had anticipated.
"The coward!" was the young machinist's comment. "To strike me
unawares. I knew he disliked me, but hasn't he wronged me enough
already?"
Jack did not know--nor, indeed, could he have understood--the bitter
hatred the Irishman bore him.
The only pride of Andy Mosey's life was his bull pup and his son Mike,
and to have the young machinist occupying a position he thought his son
should have, had always been more than this hot-tempered fellow was
inclined to bear.
The place in which Jack found himself was totally dark, whether because
it had no windows, or because it was night, he could not tell.
He groped around, and seeing a ray of light coming up from beneath,
applied his eye to what proved to be a knot-hole in the floor.
He was surprised to find the river flowing directly below, and knew at
once that he was in the lowest part of the old mill, opposite the
ancient wheel.
"They must have carried me here," he said to himself. "I wonder how
long ago?"
He felt his way along the walls, and at last reached the door. He was
on the point of lifting the latch, when it was thrown open, and by the
the rays of a lantern that at first dazzled him, he saw himself
confronted by Dennis Corrigan and Andy Mosey.
"So ye'v cum to yer sinses at last, have ye?" was Mosey's greeting, as
he set down the lantern. "Ye wint down moighty easy, so ye did."
"I'd like to know what right you have to treat me in this shameful
manner," demanded Jack, indignantly.
"Never moind," returned the Irishman; "it will teach ye a lesson not to
tell lying stories about me."
"I haven't said anything but what I believe to be true," replied Jack,
pointedly.
"Sure, now, is that raly so? Well, ye can suffer for thinking wrong,"
continued Mosey. "Oi niver----"
"Oh, stop your everlasting jaw!" broke in Corrigan, who was more
practical in his way than his brother-in-law. "Never mind what you've
done, and what you haven't done. The question is, what are we to do
with the boy, now he's here?"
The Irishman scratched his head.
"It won't do to let him go," he said.
"Suppose we search his pockets," suggested Corrigan.
Jack uttered an exclamation.
"What do you mean?" he demanded; "you wouldn't dare?"
Corrigan laughed. The young machinist did not yet know that this man
was at heart a thorough villain.
"Wait and see," he remarked, coolly. "Put your back to the door, Andy,
and don't let him escape."
Corrigan was a heavily built and powerful man, and in his present
condition Jack knew that he was no match for such an opponent.
"What do you want?" asked the young machinist.
"Want to see what you have with you. Come, show up."
Jack's head still ached from the rough treatment it had received. He
did not wish to court another such blow, and so did as demanded.
A knife, ten cents, the five-dollar bill farmer Farrell had given him,
and a copy of his agreement with Mr. Benton were all the articles of
value that he carried.
"Here's something for you, Andy," observed Corrigan, tossing over the
ten-cent piece. "The price of a drink."
Corrigan quietly slipped the five-dollar bill into his own clothes.
Then opening the agreement, he held it near the lantern and read it
carefully. It seemed to interest him greatly, and muttering something
to himself, he shoved it into the inside pocket of his coat.
"Do you intend to rob me outright?" exclaimed Jack, whose blood boiled
at such treatment.
"If that's what you call it, I suppose we do," was Corrigan's reply.
The young machinist was now becoming more used to the situation, and he
determined to submit no longer. He noticed that Mosey had unconsciously
moved to one side, and watching his chance, he sprang for the door.
But Corrigan was too quick for him, and with a reach of his long arm he
caught the young machinist by the collar, and held him until Mosey had
again reached the door.
Jack's grit was up and he wrestled with all his strength. He caught his
antagonist by the waist, and literally threw him to the floor.
"Hit him. Andy, hit him!" screamed Corrigan, trying to regain his feet.
Mosey approached Jack with the same stick he had used in the first
encounter. The young machinist caught the blow upon the left arm, and
retaliated by landing one square from the shoulder on the Irishman's
nasal organ. He did not believe in pugilism, but knew something of the
art of self-defense; and used his knowledge to good advantage.
He followed up the first blow by another, and had just gained the door
for the second time, when Corrigan, with a vile exclamation, seized the
heavy brass lantern, and swinging it over his head, brought it down with
all force upon Jack's neck.
The blow half stunned the young machinist, and before he could recover
he was on his back, with Corrigan on top of him.
"Phat shall we do?" asked Mosey in bewilderment. Jack's unexpected
attack had surprised and dismayed him.
"Get that rope upstairs," gasped Corrigan, who was well-nigh winded;
"we'll bind him so tight that he won't give us any more trouble."
The Irishman disappeared for a few moments.
When he returned he held a stout cord in his hand, with which the two
bound the young machinist securely, hands and feet.
"We'll leave him here for the present," said Corrigan, when they had
finished their work. "Come on," and taking up the lantern, which in
spite of its rough usage still remained lit, he led the way up stairs
followed by Mosey.
"Well, I'm in a pretty fix, and no mistake," was Jack's mental decision
when alone. "So far, my exertions to gain freedom haven't amounted to
anything. But if they think that I'm going to give up already, they are
mistaken."
He tugged at the cords, and by a strong effort managed, though not
without painful squeezing, to pull his feet free.
His hands, however, were placed altogether too closely to allow of a
similar proceeding, and he endeavored to find some means of cutting the
fastening.
He remembered that the latch of the door was a rusty one, and rough on
its lower side. Walking over to this, he began to rub the cord along
the edge in the hope of severing it, but the improvised saw--if it might
be called such--was not a handy tool, and half an hour passed before he
made any material progress.
"It's mighty slow work," he said to himself: "but it's bound to wear
away sooner or later."
Presently a heavy step sounded outside on the stairs, and a moment later
Andy Mosey pitched into the room.
He was in a sad state of intoxication, and his face was red with anger.
"Been tellin' foine sthories about me!" he exclaimed. "Saying I sthole
yer match-box an' set foire to old Gray's house! Oi'll fix ye!"
[Illustration: "BEEN TELLIN' FOINE STHORIES ABOUT ME!" HE EXCLAIMED.
"SAYIN' I STHOLE YER MATCH-BOX AN' SET FOIRE TO OLD GRAY'S HOUSE! OI'LL
FIX YE!"]
He held a heavy stick in his hand, and as he spoke he brought it down
with full force on Jack's head. The young machinist went down like a
shot.
"Tellin' loies about me!" continued Mosey, as he dragged the half
senseless body to the water's edge.
"Help! Help!" cried Jack, in a feeble voice.
But his cries were of no avail, and the next instant the young machinist
was being swept by the rushing tide down the stream, to the roaring
falls below.