"
He caught hold of Roy's arm and began piloting him along a path, or rather
cow track, that ran across the meadow. It was now almost dark, and Roy,
after they had gone a few steps, was only able to make out the dark
outlines of what seemed to be a small hut on the edge of a dense woods
lying directly ahead of them.
"I suppose that's our destination," thought the boy. "Well, they have not
attempted any violence, and I guess if they had meant me any physical
harm they would have attacked me when they first trapped me. But what does
all this mean? That's the question."
Nothing more was said as the three, the captors and the prisoner, tramped
across the dewy grass. As they drew closer to the building Roy had
descried, he saw that it was a dilapidated looking affair. Shutters hung
crazily from a single hinge, broken window-panes looked disconsolately
out. In the roof was a yawning gap, from which a great owl flapped as they
drew closer. Evidently the place had not been occupied as a dwelling for
many years.
The door, however, was open, and, with the pistol still menacing him, Roy
was marched by his captors into the moldy, smelling place.
Handing his pistol to the other man, gruff-voice--otherwise Joey
Eccles--struck a match. Carefully screening it from the draughts which
swept through the rickety building, he led the way into a bare room in
which was a tumble-down table and two boxes to serve as seats.
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