THE PRISONER
Pratt was the only one of the three who had the curiosity to look at his
watch when they descended into the cellar of the ruined cottage. It was
twelve minutes past ten.
They had tied up the motor-boat at its moorings below the camp, and
after a careful look-out in all directions, had crossed to No Man's
Island by Mr. Crawshay's pram. For weapons Pratt and Armstrong each
carried a short thick cudgel; Warrender at the last moment caught up his
spanner, remarking that he might need a knuckle-duster.
The flat stone was revolved. They sprang lightly into the cavity below.
"Shall we leave it open in case we have to come back in a hurry?" asked
Warrender in a whisper.
"Better close it," said Armstrong. "If Rush or the other fellow turns
up and finds it open we may be fairly trapped."
Having made all secure they stood for a few moments listening. There
was no sound.
"Now," said Warrender, moving to the front with his electric torch.
"You're lucky, Pratt; you're the only one of us who can walk upright."
"'Were I so tall to reach the pole,'" Pratt quoted.
"Shut up!" said Armstrong, in a murmur. "Every sound carries. You can
recite your little piece when we're through with it."
Slowly, quietly, in pitch darkness, they groped their way. Warrender
thought it prudent not to switch on his light. At the dry well they
halted to listen once more. On again, until they reached the vaulted
chamber at the end. From overhead came the dull regular thud of the
working machine. This was a disappointment. They wondered how many men
were above. Did the trap here give entrance to a cellar as in the
cottage? Was the printing done in such a cellar, or on a higher floor?
They could not tell. The least movement of the flagstone might be
noticed; they might be overwhelmed before they could emerge; but it was
no time to weigh risks.
Armstrong went forward, and by a momentary flash from Warrender's torch
saw the positions of the hand-grips. With infinite care he moved them
round, and let the flagstone drop for a fraction of an inch. The sound
from the machine was scarcely louder; only a subdued light shone through
the crack. He lowered the stone noiselessly a little more; again a
little more. The thuds continued; there was no other sound. No longer
hesitating, Armstrong turned the stone over until it stood upright and
peered over the edge of the cavity. He saw a large, dimly lit chamber,
evidently underground, one side of which was filled with packing cases,
crates and boxes. On the other side was a wooden staircase with a short
return, giving access to the room from which came, more distinctly now,
the thud of the printing press. It was only through the opening at the
head of the staircase that light, apparently from a lamp, penetrated
into the chamber.
Armstrong scrambled up; Warrender was following him, when the thuds
suddenly ceased. The boys held their breath. Had they been heard in
spite of their care? There was no movement above. Warrender signed to
Pratt to clamber up. Whether from excitement, or because he was shorter
than the others, Pratt dropped his stick, which fell with a crack upon
the floor. A voice from above called out two or three words which none
of the boys understood. They had the rising inflection of a question;
the last seemed to be a name. With quick wit Pratt uttered a low-toned
grunt as if in answer. Armstrong flung a glance at his companions--a
look in which they read resolution and a claim for their support. Then
he walked boldly up the stairs.
On turning the corner he saw the well-remembered figure of Jensen the
Swede in his shirt-sleeves, bending over, examining the platen of a
small hand printing press. No daylight penetrated into the room, which
was illumined by a powerful lamp hanging from the ceiling. Jensen's
back was towards the staircase. He did not at once look up; Pratt's
grunt had apparently satisfied him; but he growled a few words in a
tongue unknown to the boys, as if he was finding fault with the machine.
Receiving no answer, he glanced up. At the sight of Armstrong he
remained for an instant in his bent position, motionless, as though
turned to stone. Then he dashed towards the farther wall, where his
coat hung from a nail.
[Illustration: "HE REMAINED FOR AN INSTANT IN HIS BENT POSITION,
MOTIONLESS."]
His momentary hesitation was his undoing. Armstrong sprang after him.
Before the man could withdraw his hand from the coat pocket Armstrong
struck down his left arm, raised instinctively to ward off a blow, with
a smart stroke from his cudgel, following it up with a smashing
left-hander between the eyes, which drove his head against the wall.
While he still staggered, Armstrong seized him about the middle and
flung him to the floor, wrenching from his hand the automatic pistol he
had taken from his pocket.
"Hold his legs," cried Armstrong to Warrender, who had joined him.
"Pratt, bring up some rope; there's plenty on the packing cases below."
The Swede heaved and writhed, but the firm hands of Armstrong and
Warrender held him to the floor until Pratt had neatly bound his arms
and legs. He filled the air with curses while the pinioning was a-doing.
Warrender caught up some sheets from the pile of paper that had already
been printed, and twisting them into a wad, stuffed it between the man's
teeth. Laid helpless against the wall, the Swede concentrated all the
bitterness of his rage and resentment in his eyes, which followed every
movement of his captors.
Armstrong had already shot the stout bolt that defended the heavy oaken
door on the inside. Having disposed of their victim, they threw a hasty
glance at the small hand press, the piles of paper, printed and
unprinted; in their eagerness to achieve their purpose they did not stay
to make a thorough examination.
"Jack, will you close the trap-door below and remain on guard here?"
said Warrender. "Take this fellow's pistol. You can spy out through a
chink in the boarding, and if you see any of the others coming, sing
out."
"Righto," said Armstrong.
Pratt was already through the low doorway in the north-east corner of
the room. Warrender followed him, and found himself at the foot of a
dark stone staircase, which wound so rapidly that Pratt was even now out
of sight. The stairs were much worn in the middle, and in their haste
to ascend the boys were glad to avail themselves of the rope that ran
along the inner wall, supported by rusty iron stanchions.
When they had mounted a score of steps by the light of Warrender's
torch, they came to an open doorway giving access to a low room lined
with bookcases, except on the eastern wall, where a window, closely
boarded up, looked towards the Red House. A desk stood in the centre of
the floor; there was no other furniture, no occupant, only an array of
small tin cases along one of the walls. Going higher, they presently
halted before a closed door, the top of which was only a few feet below
the massive timbers of the roof. Pratt turned the large iron ring; the
door did not yield. He rapped smartly on the oak: there was no reply.
Stooping, he peeped through the enormous keyhole. The interior of the
room was dark. Warrender held the torch to the hole.
"The door's four or five inches thick," said Pratt. "No wonder he can't
hear--if this is the room. Bang with your spanner."
Warrender smote the door vigorously, Pratt listening at the keyhole.
There was no reply, but Pratt declared that he heard a slight movement,
and putting his mouth to the keyhole he cried--
"Can you hear? We are friends."
Still there was no voice in answer. The only sound was a clanking of
metal.
"Is your uncle deaf?" asked Warrender.
"He wasn't ten years ago. You try, Phil; your voice may carry better
than mine."
"Are you Mr. Ambrose Pratt?" Warrender shouted, then turned his ear to
the hole.
"Yes. Who are you?"
The words were spoken in tones so low and hollow that Warrender could
scarcely distinguish them.
"Friends," he replied. "Your nephew Percy. Come to the door."
"What did you say?"
"Come--to--the--door!" Warrender bawled, spacing out the words.
"Why do you mock me? You know I cannot."
Again came the clanking of metal.
"He must be deaf," said Pratt.
"We have come to help you," cried Warrender, slowly and distinctly.
"Can you open the door?"
"To help me!" The clanking was louder, more prolonged. "Are the
villains gone? Who are you?"
"This is rotten," said Warrender to Pratt. "Shall I never make him
understand? Please be still and listen," he called. "We are friends.
We have come to let you out. Can you help us?"
"No. The door is locked. That man Gradoff has the key, and I am
chained."
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Pratt. "Can we burst in the door?"
Standing on the narrow top step of the staircase, with winding stairs
behind them, they were unable to bring any momentum to bear, and the
pressure of their shoulders did not cause the heavy timber to yield a
fraction of an inch. Warrender tried to force first the head of his
spanner, then the narrower end of the handle between the door and the
side-post. He failed.
"Get Jensen's pistol and blow it in," suggested Pratt.
Warrender hurried down the stairs. Returning with the pistol, he called
through the keyhole--
"We will try to blow the lock in. Keep away from the line of fire."
"Fire away. I am at the side of the room," said the prisoner.
Warrender placed the muzzle in the keyhole and fired. There was the
crack of shattered metal, but still the door did not yield. He fired a
second time and pushed.
"It is giving. Shove!" he said.
Pratt turned his back to the door, and thrusting his feet as firmly as
he could against the curving wall, he drove backwards with all his
force. The fragments of the broken lock clattered upon the floor
within, and the door swinging open suddenly, precipitated Pratt headlong
into the room.
Warrender flashed his torch upon the scene. Against the left, the
eastern wall, sitting on a roughly contrived bunk supported between two
massive oaken beams that stretched from floor to roof, was the tall lank
figure that Armstrong had described. He was chained by the leg to one
of the beams, the chain forming a loop around it, the last link being
riveted to one in the longer portion.
Ambrose Pratt gazed in speechless surprise at the two schoolboys.
"Uncle!" exclaimed Pratt, going forward with outstretched hand.
Mr. Pratt looked with an expression of utter bewilderment and
incredulity.
"Don't you remember me? I'm your nephew Percy," said the boy.
"My nephew!" murmured Mr. Pratt.
"Let us postpone explanations," said Warrender. "We have to get away.
Hold the chain, Percy. I'll smash it with the spanner."
But the chain, which the general dealer's assistant had described as
strong enough to hold a mad bull, resisted all the vigorous blows
Warrender rained upon it.
"Run downstairs, Pratt," he said, "and see if there's a hammer and
chisel below--or any tool about the printing press."
During Pratt's absence he repeated his efforts with the spanner, but
made no impression on the tough steel. Pratt returned with a long steel
rod which he had found lying near the press, and inserting this in one
of the links, they tried to burst it.
"No good!" declared Warrender. "Nothing but a chisel and hammer will do
it. I've both in my tool box in the motor-boat. We must have them.
It's the only chance. You had better go for them, Pratt. Jack and I
could tackle the foreigners if they came up."
"All right," said Pratt. "What's the chisel like?"
"What's it like?" exclaimed Warrender. "Like a chisel! Hang it! We
can't risk a mistake. I'll go myself. You stay with your uncle. Jack
will keep guard below, with the pistol. The door's strong, and we may
be able to keep the enemy out until I have time to get back, suppose
they come. I'll be as quick as I can: afraid I can't do it under half an
hour. Good luck!"