CHAPTER IX.
A LOSS OF IMPORTANCE.
Half stunned Dick lay for a long time on the newspapers and musty straw in the disused coal bin of the tenement cellar.
"This is what I call tough luck," he muttered to himself, and tried to force the somewhat loose gag from his mouth. But it would not come.
As soon as he felt strong enough he began to work on the rope which bound his hands together. But the rascals who had placed him in the cellar had done their work well, and the cord refused to budge.
With difficulty he managed to stand erect. The bin was not only pitch-dark, but full of cobwebs, and the latter brushed over his face whenever he moved. Then a spider crawled on his neck, greatly adding to his discomfort.
Hour after hour went by, and poor Dick was wondering what the end of the adventure would be when he heard a footstep overhead and then came the indistinct murmur of voices.
