“Griffin,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry we had to kidnap you. I can’t tell you why, but you’ll find out. You won’t be badly treated. I’ll see you get enough to eat—that is, if you listen to reason, to-morrow or next day, when a gentleman comes to talk to you about a little matter.... I guess you’re wise to what’s up—something to do with that fool aeroplane. But I don’t know what it is, and I don’t want to.... Well, you’re a brave kid, all right; and I never knew one that could keep his mouth shut as well as you can.... Good night.” Then Hike spoke his first words since he had been captured. “Good night. Much obliged for the pillow.” He twisted his head around, and pretended to go to sleep. But he didn’t. One reason why he had made himself go to sleep when covered by the cloak—even after it had been loosened enough to give him tolerable air to breathe—was so that when the time came he could stay awake. And that time was now. Through narrowed eyelids, he saw Bat roam to the door, and sit on the sill, lazily looking out, his rifle resting against his knees. The room, Hike made out, could not have been used for years. It had evidently been the home of the poorest sort of “poor white trash” farmers. The floor was littered with broken whiskey-bottles and dirt. In the wretched light, given by a small lantern placed on a rickety wooden table by the wall, Hike could see that weeds had thrust themselves up through the cracks of the puncheon-floor. In one corner was piled broken furniture—a couple of wretched wooden chairs, the wreck of a bed, a few broken dishes. The light, flickering, made ghostly shadows along the thatch. In all, it was far more desolate than a haunted ruin. Hike did not spend very much time thinking about that, however. He had to plan an escape. His knife and what little money he had on his person had been taken by the tall Snafflin. How could he cut the two bonds, of thin but strong and new rope, which fastened his wrists and ankles? He wriggled away at them, making as little motion as possible, and saw that it would be impossible to untie them. The knots were tight. Then he would have to burn them—yes, and he’d do it, though he did not carry a single match. He had something better—nitric acid! Martin Priest had always been interested in chemical experiments, to find the best explosive for use with bombs to be dropped from aeroplanes; one lighter and safer than any other. Hike had worked with him, at Monterey, making tiny mixtures of strong chemicals, and he had a little case of chemicals, that was still with him. In it was a small vial of strong nitric acid—which eats through rope, rotting it; and which turns the fingers strangely orange.