ficer and several aides galloped forward, calling out something in Russian.
"What is it?" asked Tom.
"He says we are under arrest," translated the exile.
"What for?" demanded the young inventor.
Ivan Petrofsky shrugged his shoulders.
"It is of little use to ask—now," he answered. "It may be we have violated some local law, and can pay a fine and go, or we may be taken for just what we are, or foreign spies, which we are not. It is best to keep quiet, and go with them."
"Go where?" cried Tom.
"To prison, I suppose," answered the exile. "Keep quiet, and leave it to me. I will do all I can. I don't believe they will recognize me."
"Bless my search warrant!" cried Mr. Damon. "In a Russian prison! That is terrible!"
A few minutes later, expostulations having been useless, our friends were led away between guards who carried ugly looking rifles, and who looked more ugly and menacing themselves. Then the doors of the Russian prison of Owbinsk closed on Tom and his friends, while their airship was left at the mercy of their enemies.
