THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
took on a deep, foggy gray. Morning was approaching.
He now began to struggle. He would swell his muscles, then relax them suddenly, recalling the skill in this direction of a prestidigitator he had once seen at the vaudeville. By the time the outside world had turned yellow he had gained an inch or so at the wrists; but, in opposition to this, the rope had tightened around his elbows. This phenomenon convinced him that he was trussed up in a single coil of rope several yards long. Somewhere, then, there ought to be a weak spot. He rested his arms and began wriggling his feet.
He had lost considerable blood. His left shoulder was damp and soggy with it, and whenever he moved his head his neck burned and the hair pulled. He was grateful for one thing—they had not gagged him; he could get plenty of air into his lungs. But this fact added a new worry to those already accumulated—his captors did not care whether he yelled for help or not. He was dreadfully thirsty. He would have exchanged all his sovereigns for a dipper of cold water.
The four walls of the cellar began to take form, to stand out distinctly, and he could see about. What he saw troubled him. He was an old hand in the psychology of cellars. This was under a deserted house. Where? Was he across the way from Madame Rene's or had he been carried to another part of the town? While the clay was damp, there were no visible signs of moisture. Thus he reasoned that he was nowhere near the Nile.
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