Harry went to the man’s head and leant over, peering into his face. Instantly the fallen sailor flung his arms round Harry’s legs and pulled them violently towards him. Unable to recover himself Harry fell backward, and before he could cry out a cloak was flung over his head and a brawny hand had him by the throat. Through the folds of cloth he heard the men with many oaths congratulate themselves on the ease with which they had accomplished their job. For a few moments he struggled violently, until he felt that resistance was hopeless. Then the cloak was tied about his neck, and he felt himself carried by two of the three, one having him by the head, the other by the heels. They walked swiftly along, and, not troubling to keep step, jolted him unpleasantly. There was a singing in his ears; he gasped for breath; and soon his physical discomfort and his fears were alike annihilated. He had lost consciousness. *CHAPTER VIII* *Flotsam* Under the Leads—A Thames-side Attic—A Man of Law—A Matter of Form—A Question of Identity—A Fine Mesh—A Dash for Freedom—Help in Need—For the Plantations—Visitors on Board—Ned Bates—In the Foc’sle—Sailor’s Knots—An Old Coat—Odds and Ends—A Soft Answer—Overboard—A Dead Heat—A Sea Lawyer—Grootz Protests—A Stern Chase—Sherry’s Story—To the Low Countries When Harry recovered his senses he found himself tied hand and foot, and with a cloth gag between his teeth. It was pitch dark; he could hear nothing save a faint scratching near at hand; mice were evidently at their nocturnal work. He lay still perforce; he found it impossible even to wriggle over on to his side. Here was indeed a culmination of his misfortunes. He tried to think, but the sudden attack and his subsequent unconsciousness had left his brain in a whirl. Gradually the sequence of events came back to him: his walk through the streets towards Blackfriars, the beggar woman, the three sailors, the pretended fit. What was the meaning of it? Had he been marked by the press-gang, and trepanned to serve Her Majesty on the high seas? Had he been kidnapped, to be robbed or held to ransom? Hardly the former, for a knock on the head would have served the kidnappers’ ends. Hardly the latter, for no one could have taken the pains to waylay for such a purpose a penniless youth with no friends. Suddenly he remembered the vague uneasiness shown at times by Sherebiah; his earnest warnings; the cudgel which after all had proved useless. Sherebiah, it seemed, had had more definite reasons for alarm than he had avowed; why then had the silly fellow not spoken his mind freely? Who was the enemy? What motive could any person in the wide world have for kidnapping one who was even yet a boy and had, so far as he knew, done no harm to a living soul? The more he thought, the more he was puzzled.