CHAPTER XIX
THE PRISONER
Pratt was the only one of the three who had the curiosity to look at hiswatch when they descended into the cellar of the ruined cottage. It wastwelve minutes past ten.
They had tied up the motor-boat at its moorings below the camp, andafter a careful look-out in all directions, had crossed to No Man'sIsland by Mr. Crawshay's pram. For weapons Pratt and Armstrong eachcarried a short thick cudgel; Warrender at the last moment caught up hisspanner, 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?" askedWarrender in a whisper.
"Better close it," said Armstrong. "If Rush or the other fellow turnsup and finds it open we may be fairly trapped."
Having made all secure they stood for a few moments listening. Therewas 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 canrecite your little piece when we're through with it."
Slowly, quietly, in pitch darkness, they groped their way. Warrenderthought it prudent not to switch on his light. At the dry well theyhalted to listen once more. On again, until they reached the vaultedchamber at the end. From overhead came the dull regular thud of theworking machine. This was a disappointment. They wondered how many menwere above. Did the trap here give entrance to a cellar as in thecottage? Was the printing done in such a cellar, or on a higher floor?They could not tell. The least movement of the flagstone might benoticed; they might be overwhelmed before they could emerge; but it wasno time to weigh risks.
Armstrong went forward, and by a momentary flash from Warrender's torchsaw the positions of the hand-grips. With infinite care he moved themround, and let the flagstone drop for a fraction of an inch. The soundfrom the machine was scarcely louder; only a subdued light shone throughthe crack. He lowered the stone noiselessly a little more; again alittle more. The thuds continued; there was no other sound. No longerhesitating, Armstrong turned the stone over until it stood upright andpeered 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 shortreturn, giving access to the room from which came, more distinctly now,the thud of the printing press. It was only through the opening at thehead of the staircase that light, apparently from a lamp, penetratedinto the chamber.
Armstrong scrambled up; Warrender was following him, when the thudssuddenly ceased. The boys held their breath. Had they been heard inspite of their care? There was no movement above. Warrender signed toPratt to clamber up. Whether from excitement, or because he was shorterthan the others, Pratt dropped his stick, which fell with a crack uponthe floor. A voice from above called out two or three words which noneof 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-tonedgrunt as if in answer. Armstrong flung a glance at his companions--alook in which they read resolution and a claim for their support. Thenhe walked boldly up the stairs.
On turning the corner he saw the well-remembered figure of Jensen theSwede in his shirt-sleeves, bending over, examining the platen of asmall hand printing press. No daylight penetrated into the room, whichwas illumined by a powerful lamp hanging from the ceiling. Jensen'sback was towards the staircase. He did not at once look up; Pratt'sgrunt had apparently satisfied him; but he growled a few words in atongue unknown to the boys, as if he was finding fault with the machine.Receiving no answer, he glanced up. At the sight of Armstrong heremained for an instant in his bent position, motionless, as thoughturned to stone. Then he dashed towards the farther wall, where hiscoat hung from a nail.
"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 Armstrongstruck down his left arm, raised instinctively to ward off a blow, witha smart stroke from his cudgel, following it up with a smashingleft-hander between the eyes, which drove his head against the wall.While he still staggered, Armstrong seized him about the middle andflung him to the floor, wrenching from his hand the automatic pistol hehad 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 andWarrender held him to the floor until Pratt had neatly bound his armsand 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 alreadybeen printed, and twisting them into a wad, stuffed it between the man'steeth. Laid helpless against the wall, the Swede concentrated all thebitterness of his rage and resentment in his eyes, which followed everymovement of his captors.
Armstrong had already shot the stout bolt that defended the heavy oakendoor on the inside. Having disposed of their victim, they threw a hastyglance at the small hand press, the piles of paper, printed andunprinted; in their eagerness to achieve their purpose they did not stayto 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 achink in the boarding, and if you see any of the others coming, singout."
"Righto," said Armstrong.
Pratt was already through the low doorway in the north-east corner ofthe room. Warrender followed him, and found himself at the foot of adark stone staircase, which wound so rapidly that Pratt was even now outof sight. The stairs were much worn in the middle, and in their hasteto ascend the boys were glad to avail themselves of the rope that ranalong the inner wall, supported by rusty iron stanchions.
When they had mounted a score of steps by the light of Warrender'storch, they came to an open doorway giving access to a low room linedwith bookcases, except on the eastern wall, where a window, closelyboarded up, looked towards the Red House. A desk stood in the centre ofthe floor; there was no other furniture, no occupant, only an array ofsmall tin cases along one of the walls. Going higher, they presentlyhalted before a closed door, the top of which was only a few feet belowthe massive timbers of the roof. Pratt turned the large iron ring; thedoor did not yield. He rapped smartly on the oak: there was no reply.Stooping, he peeped through the enormous keyhole. The interior of theroom was dark. Warrender held the torch to the hole.
"The door's four or five inches thick," said Pratt. "No wonder he can'thear--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 ofmetal.
"Is your uncle deaf?" asked Warrender.
"He wasn't ten years ago. You try, Phil; your voice may carry betterthan mine."
"Are you Mr. Ambrose Pratt?" Warrender shouted, then turned his ear tothe hole.
"Yes. Who are you?"
The words were spoken in tones so low and hollow that Warrender couldscarcely 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 thevillains gone? Who are you?"
"This is rotten," said Warrender to Pratt. "Shall I never make himunderstand? 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 amchained."
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Pratt. "Can we burst in the door?"
Standing on the narrow top step of the staircase, with winding stairsbehind them, they were unable to bring any momentum to bear, and thepressure of their shoulders did not cause the heavy timber to yield afraction of an inch. Warrender tried to force first the head of hisspanner, then the narrower end of the handle between the door and theside-post. He failed.
"Get Jensen's pistol and blow it in," suggested Pratt.
Warrender hurried down the stairs. Returning with the pistol, he calledthrough 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 thecrack of shattered metal, but still the door did not yield. He fired asecond time and pushed.
"It is giving. Shove!" he said.
Pratt turned his back to the door, and thrusting his feet as firmly ashe could against the curving wall, he drove backwards with all hisforce. The fragments of the broken lock clattered upon the floorwithin, and the door swinging open suddenly, precipitated Pratt headlonginto the room.
Warrender flashed his torch upon the scene. Against the left, theeastern wall, sitting on a roughly contrived bunk supported between twomassive oaken beams that stretched from floor to roof, was the tall lankfigure that Armstrong had described. He was chained by the leg to oneof the beams, the chain forming a loop around it, the last link beingriveted 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 andincredulity.
"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 asstrong enough to hold a mad bull, resisted all the vigorous blowsWarrender rained upon it.
"Run downstairs, Pratt," he said, "and see if there's a hammer andchisel below--or any tool about the printing press."
During Pratt's absence he repeated his efforts with the spanner, butmade no impression on the tough steel. Pratt returned with a long steelrod which he had found lying near the press, and inserting this in oneof the links, they tried to burst it.
"No good!" declared Warrender. "Nothing but a chisel and hammer will doit. 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 Icould 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! Wecan't risk a mistake. I'll go myself. You stay with your uncle. Jackwill keep guard below, with the pistol. The door's strong, and we maybe able to keep the enemy out until I have time to get back, supposethey come. I'll be as quick as I can: afraid I can't do it under half anhour. Good luck!"