Chapter XXI: Skeel Reveals Himself

“Shall we loosen him up now?” asked the voice of one of the men. Tom could still see nothing, as the bag remained over his head.

“Yes, take off the headgear, and ungag him,” answered Skeel. “It won’t matter if he does holler up here. No one will hear him. But keep his hands tied, except when we feed him.”

Tom felt a sudden sense of elation in spite of his most uncomfortable position. At least he was going to get something to eat, and he needed it, for he felt nearly famished.

“Is the door locked?” asked one of the men.

“I attended to that,” was Skeel’s answer. “He can’t get away from here.”

“We’ll see about that,” mused Tom. “I’ll have a good try, at any rate, the first chance I get.”

He felt the fastenings of the bag being loosed, and when it was taken off, he looked about him quickly. The first glance was enough to tell him, if he had not already been sure of it, that he was in some shack where he had never been before. This was not the deserted cabin where he and his chums had spent the night. Tom glanced toward the windows, hoping to get a glimpse outside so he might determine his position, but there were dirty curtains over the casements.

His next glances were directed toward the men themselves, though he was already sure, in his own mind, who they were. Nor was his judgment reversed.

There stood Skeel, a grin of triumph in his ugly face, and there were the two other men, of evil countenance, whom Tom had seen with the erstwhile professor.

“We’re going to take the gag out of your mouth,” said Skeel to his prisoner. “We don’t want to hurt you any more than we have to, but we’re going to have you do as we say, and not as you want to. You can yell, if you like, but you’ll only be wasting your breath. This is a good way from nowhere, up here, and you won’t be heard. You can’t get away, because one of us will be on guard all the while. I tell you this to save you trouble, for I know you, and I know that you’ll make a row if you possibly can,” and Skeel stuck out his jaw pugnaciously. He and Tom Fairfield had been in more than one “row” before.

“Take it off, Murker,” the former instructor said to the worse-looking of his two helpers. “Let’s see if he’ll yelp now.”

It was a relief to Tom to have the bunch of not overly-clean rags taken from his mouth. His tongue and jaws ached from the pressure and now he sighed in relief.

Tom Fairfield was not foolish. He had already made up his mind to do all he could to circumvent the plans of the plotters, and he was going to begin as soon as possible. He did not altogether believe Skeel when the latter said that shouting would do no good, but Tom did not intend to try, at once, that method of getting help.

He wanted to rest his throat from the strain, and he wanted to see how best to direct his voice in case he did feel like shouting. He had no doubt but what if he cried out for help now, the gag would be put back in his mouth. And that he did not want. He wanted to eat, and oh! how he did long for a drink of cold water.

“Guess he isn’t going to yap,” murmured the man known as Murker.

“So much the better,” said Skeel. “Now you can loosen those ropes on his legs. He can’t get away.”

Tom wished, with all his heart, that they would loosen the bonds on his hands and arms, but he stubbornly resolved to stand the pain those cords gave him, rather than ask a favor of any of the trio of scoundrels.

He simply could not endure his thirst and hunger any longer. He tried to speak--to ask at least for a glass of water, for the men could not be so altogether heartless as to refuse what they would give to a dumb beast. But Tom’s throat was so parched and dry that only a husky sound came forth.

“Guess he wants to wet his whistle,” suggested Whalen.

“Well, get him a drink then,” half-growled Skeel. “Then we’ll talk business.”

Tom thought nothing ever tasted so good as that draught of water from the cracked teacup one of the men brought in from another room, and held up to his lips. It was better than nectar ever could be, he was sure.

“How about a little grub?” asked Murker.

“Oh, he could have it, I guess,” Skeel replied. “Guess they didn’t any of ’em have much. They were away from their camp all night, you say, and there wasn’t anything in the old shanty.”

“That’s right,” assented Whalen.

Then Tom realized that he and his companions had been spied upon, just as Jack had so strangely suspected. They had also been followed, it was evident, for the men knew of the movements of himself and his chums.

“I meant grub for all of us,” went on Murker. “I’m a bit hungry myself, and it’s about time for dinner.”

“All right--get what you want,” assented Skeel. “And give him some. One of you can sit by him, and take off the ropes while he eats. But watch him--he’s like a cat--quick!”

Tom felt like smiling at this tribute to his prowess, but he refrained. It was no time for laughter.

“I’ve got a bit of writing to do,” Skeel went on. “You fellows can eat if you like. I’ll take mine later.”

“All right,” assented Whalen. “But what about--well, you know what I mean,” and he rubbed his fingers together to indicate money.

“I’ll attend to that,” said Skeel, a bit stiffly. “You mind your own affairs!”

“Oh, no offense!” said Whalen, quickly. “I only wanted to know.”

“You’ll know soon enough,” was the retort, as the former teacher moved toward another room.

“Well, I’m in on this too. Don’t forget that!” exclaimed Murker, and there seemed to be menace in his tones.

“Oh, don’t bother me!” answered Skeel, apparently a bit irritated.

Evidently the feeling among the conspirators was not as friendly as it might have been. It was very like a dissention, and Tom wondered if the truth of the old adage was to be proved, “When thieves fall out, honest men get their dues.”

“I hope it proves so in my case,” Tom reflected. “But first I would like something to eat. And I wish the others had some, too. I wonder where they are now, and what they think of me?” Professor Skeel went into another room, and closed the door after him. Murker also went into another apartment--there seemed to be three rooms, at least, on the first floor of the cabin--and presently the evil-faced man came back with a platter on which were some chunks of cold meat and bread. It looked better to Tom, half famished as he was, than a banquet would have seemed--even a surreptitious midnight school-feed.

“Help yourself,” growled Murker, as he set the platter down in front of Tom, on a rough table, and loosed the bonds of our hero’s arms.

“Guess I’ll have a bit myself,” murmured Whalen.

“Go on,” mumbled Murker, his mouth half full. “The boss will eat later, I reckon.”

Tom reflected that by the “boss” they must mean Skeel.

As for the young hunter, he eagerly took some of the bread and meat. It was cold, but it was good and nourishing, and seemed to have been well cooked. It put new life into Tom at once. He would have liked a cup of coffee, but there seemed to be none. Perhaps the men would make some later. Tom certainly hoped that they would do so.

The men ate fast--almost ravenously, and Tom was not at all slow himself. He did not realize what an appetite he had until he saw the victuals disappearing.

Then, when the edge of his hunger had been a little dulled and blunted, to say the least, Tom once more began wondering why he had been caught and brought as a prisoner to the lonely hut.

“What’s the game?” he asked himself.

He was soon to know.

“Well, if you fellows have had enough, and he’s been fed, tie up his hands again,” said Skeel, coming from the room just then. “I want to have a talk with him. You can wait outside,” he added, when the ropes had once more been put on Tom’s hands and arms.

Skeel waited until the men had left the hut. Then, locking the door after them, the former teacher confronted Tom. Up to now our hero had said nothing. He believed in a policy of silence for the time being.

“Well, what do you think of yourself now?” sneered Skeel, folding his arms. “You’re not so smart as you thought you were, are you?”

“I haven’t begun to think yet,” said Tom, coolly. “But I would like to know why you have brought me here--by what right?”

“By the right of--might!” was the answer. “I’ve got you here, and here I’m going to keep you until your father pays me a ransom of ten thousand dollars. That will square accounts a little, and make up for some of the things you did to me. It’s you against ten thousand dollars, and I guess your father would rather pay up than see you suffer. Now I’ll get down to business,” and he drew up a chair and sat down in front of Tom.