"Let me get my hands on you, and I'll show you!" quivered Benson.
"Yah! Listen to yo'! Yo' wait er minute, an' Ah'll show yo' a light."
Gr-r-r-r! Gr-r-r-r! That sound from overhead was not pleasant. Jack, in
the few seconds that were left to him, could only guess as to the cause of
the sounds. Then, some fifteen feet over his head, a tiny flame sputtered.
This match-end was carried to the wick of the lantern that the yellowish
guide had been carrying, and now the light illumined the place into which
Jack Benson had fallen.
That place was a square-shaped pit, with boarded sides. Up above, on a
shelf of flooring, knelt the late guide, grinning down with a look of
infernal glee. On either side of the mulatto stood a heavy-jowled
bull-dog. Both brutes peered down, showing their teeth in a way to make a
timid man's blood run cold.
"Put those dogs back and come down here," challenged Jack, shaking his
fist. "Come down, and I'll teach you a few things, you rascal!"
"Don' yo' shake yo' fist at me, or dem dawgs will sure jump down and
tackle yo'," grinned the guide, gripping at the collars of the brutes,
which, truly, showed signs of intending to spring below.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85