He landed on damp, soft earth.
"Good boy!" called one of the Italians, the lantern lighting his smiling
face as it appeared framed by the trapway for an instant. "Not so very
long to wait. Let you out so you go home, bimeby."
Then the trapdoor was gently put tack in place, after which Jack heard
the click of a padlock above to secure the barrier in place.
Young Benson got upon his feet, stretched to make sure he was unhurt,
then broke forth, under his breath:
"Of all the prize fools in the world, commend me to Jack Benson! Here,
at the request of a perfect stranger, I've taken a long walk this night,
just in order to place myself wholly in the hands of men who, however
mild they may be in their piracy, certainly wish me no good. Oh, you,
Jack! Oh, you blooming, prize idiot!"
Then he smiled grimly, wondering. From what had happened so far he felt
inclined to believe the smiling rascals above. Had they intended worse
violence, they had had abundant opportunity to show it.
"Of course, they're probably stretching a point when they say I'm to be
here only three or four hours," reflected the boy. "Yet, now I'm here,
I imagine I'll have to remain here until they're pleased to let me out.
But--will I, though?"
Overhead, at that moment, sounded the tinkle of a mandolin. It came,
apparently, from the room nearer the front door. The two foreigners
began to hum softly to the accompaniment of their instrument.
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