But at length they reached the final landing and there they were confronted by another door. This door, they assumed, either led out into the open or into some cave just below the surface of the ground. Perhaps, thought Frank, it even led into the cellar of the Polucca house.
The boys pressed close to the door, taking care to make no noise, and listened.
They heard not a sound.
Still, with the caution arising from their previous narrow escape, they decided to wait a little while longer. As later events proved, it was well that they did.
For a while they could hear nothing from beyond the door and there was no indication that anyone was there. But, after listening intently for as long as five minutes, they heard a queer shuffling sound and then a sigh. That was all.
“Someone there!” breathed Frank, in a low whisper.
Joe nodded in the darkness.
They did not know what to do. It seemed apparent that there was someone beyond the door. Possibly a sentry. If there was only one man it might be possible to attack him and disarm him, although it was scarcely possible that they could do this without noise and without attracting the attention of the smugglers.
The problem was solved for them.
A door thudded in the distance. Then there was a muffled murmur of voices, growing in volume, and a trampling of feet.
“I tell you this nonsense has gone far enough. He’ll sign, and he’ll sign right now, or I’ll know the reason why.”
The boys started. For the voice was none other than the voice of the man who had ordered them out of the cove that afternoon.
“That’s the stuff, chief!” returned someone. “Make him sign and promise to keep his mouth shut.”
“If he doesn’t he’ll never live to tell about it, that’s one thing sure!” snapped the first man coldly.
There was the sound of a switch being snapped, and then the boys could see a yellow beam of light beneath the door at their feet. From the sounds they judged that three or four men had entered the room beyond.
“Well, he’s still here,” said the man who had been addressed as “chief.” He strode across the room and the boys could hear a chair scrape on the board floor. “You’ll find that this is an easier place to get into than it is to get out of.”
A weary voice answered him. The tones were low. The boys could not make out the words.
“You’re a prisoner here and you’ll be a prisoner here until you die unless you sign that paper.”
Again the weary voice spoke, but, as before, the tones were so low that the words were indistinguishable.
“You won’t sign, eh? We’ll see about that!”
“Wait till he goes hungry for a few days and then he’ll think differently,” put in one of the other men. There was a hoarse laugh from his companions.
“Yes, you’ll be hungry enough before we’re through with you. I can promise you that,” said the harsh voice. “Are you going to sign?”
“No,” they heard the prisoner in the other room answer.
Who was this man who was evidently held captive by the smugglers in the underground room? The same thought was in the mind of each boy as he listened to the conversation.
“You know too much about us. You’ve found out too much, and we’ll never let you get out of here to use your information. You may as well get that straight. You’ve read that paper. If you don’t sign it you will starve.”
The prisoner evidently did not reply.
“Give him a taste of the hot iron,” suggested one of the smugglers.
“No, nothing like that. It’s too crude. I’m giving him his chance. He can sign this paper now or take the consequences.”
Still there was no reply.
“Getting obstinate, are you? Won’t you even answer me!” The leader of the gang was evidently getting angry. Suddenly he shouted out:
“Sign this paper, Hardy, or you’ll starve—as sure as my name is Snackley!”
XIX
Captured
The worst fears of the Hardy boys were realized.
They had been unable to distinguish clearly the voice of the prisoner until then, for it had been muffled by the intervening door, but all along they had suspected that it was their father. Now they knew, and they knew also that he was a captive of Snackley, the head of the gang of smugglers.
Joe gave a perceptible start, but Frank laid a warning hand upon his brother’s arm. Now, of all times, there was need for caution.
They listened.
“I won’t sign it,” replied Fenton Hardy clearly.
Snackley replied:
“You heard what I said. Sign or starve.”
“I’ll starve.”
“You’ll think differently in a day or so. You’re pretty hungry now, Hardy, but you’ll be a lot hungrier later on. And thirsty, too. You’ll be ready to sell your soul for a drop of water or a bite to eat.”
“I won’t sign.”
“After all, we’re not asking very much. You’ve discovered a number of things that we want you to forget about. It won’t hurt you to go back to Bayport and say that you couldn’t find out anything about us. Nobody knows where you have been.”
“I’ve found out all I wanted to know about you, Snackley. I’ve got enough evidence to send you to the penitentiary for the rest of your life. And I have more than that.”
“What do you mean—more than that?”
“I know enough to have you sent to the electric chair.”
There was a sudden commotion in the room and two or three of the smugglers began talking at once.
“You’re crazy!” shouted Snackley, but there was a current of uneasiness in his voice. “You’re crazy. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough to have you sent up for murder.”
“All the more reason why you’re not going to get out of here without signing this paper. You can count yourself lucky you have even this chance of getting out alive. By all rights we should knock you on the
