patience. Given the violence of his character, one can easily imagine in what state Uncle Prudent probably was.
In any case, he and Phil Evans had to assume it would be difficult, the next evening, to take their places in the club office.
As for Frycollin, eyes shut, mouth closed, it was impossible for him to imagine what was going on. He was more dead than alive.
For an hour, the prisoners’ situation did not change. Nobody came to visit them or to give them freedom of movement and speech, which they wanted so much. They were reduced to muffled breaths, to “agh!”s uttered through their gags, to jerking about like carps suffocating outside their natal pond. What all this indicated in the way of stifled anger, fury turned inward or rather bound up, one can easily understand. Then, after these fruitless efforts, they were motionless for some time. Next, deprived as they were of the sense of sight, they tried through the sense of hearing to snatch some clue to the disquieting state of affairs. But they sought in vain for any other noise than the interminable and inexplicable frrrr that seemed to envelop them in a vibrating atmosphere.
What finally occurred was this: Phil Evans, proceeding with calm, managed to loosen the rope that tied his wrists together. Then, bit by bit, the knot came undone, his fingers slipped over each other, his hands regained their usual facility.
Vigorous rubbing restored his circulation, obstructed by the binding. A moment later, Phil Evans had lifted the blindfold from his eyes, pulled the gag from his mouth, cut the ropes with the fine blade of his bowie knife. An American who does not always keep his bowie knife in his pocket is no American.1
What was more, if Phil Evans had regained the powers of movement and speech, that was all. His eyes made no attempt to exercise themselves, which would have been useless—at this moment, at least. Total darkness in the cell. And yet, a little light filtered through a sort of loophole, a narrow window pierced into the wall some six or seven feet up.
As one can imagine, despite all his prejudices, Phil Evans did not hesitate for a moment to save his rival. A few cuts from the bowie knife sufficed to break the knots that tied his feet and hands. Uncle Prudent, half-enraged, got to his knees immediately, and tore off blindfold and gag; then, in a strangled voice:
“Thank you!” he said.
“No! … No thanking,” replied the other.
“Phil Evans?”
“Uncle Prudent? …”
“Here, there’s no more president, no more secretary of the Weldon Institute, no more adversaries!”
“You’re right,” replied Phil Evans. “There are only two men out to avenge themselves on a third, whose attack demands severe retaliation. And that third man …”
“Is Robur!”
“Is Robur!”
This then was a point on which the two ex-competitors were in absolute agreement. On that subject, no dispute to fear.
“And your valet?” observed Phil Evans, indicating Frycollin, who was gasping for air like a seal. “We ought to untie him.”
“Not yet,” replied Uncle Prudent. “He would only pummel us with his jeremiads, and we have more important things to do than reproach him.”
“What things, Uncle Prudent?”
“To save ourselves, if possible.”
“And even if impossible.”
“You’re right, Phil Evans, even if impossible!”
As to doubting for an instant that the abduction was the work of that strange Robur, such a thing never crossed the minds of the president and his colleague. And the fact was, plain honest thieves, having divested them of watches, jewels, wallets, pocketbooks, would have thrown them to the bottom of the Schuylkill River with a good clean slit knifed through their throats, instead of shutting them up in the bottom of … Of what?—A serious question, truly, which had to be cleared up, before beginning preparations for escape with any chance of success.
“Phil Evans,” Uncle Prudent went on, “after we left that meeting, instead of exchanging pleasantries we need not return to now, we would have done better to be less distracted. If we had stayed in the streets of Philadelphia, none of this would have happened. Evidently this man Robur knew what was going on in the club; he foresaw what kind of anger his attitude would provoke, and he stationed some of his bandits at the door to lend him a hand. When we left Walnut Street, those henchmen watched us, followed us, and when they saw us step imprudently into the avenues in Fairmont Park, the rest was easy.”
“That’s it!” replied Phil Evans. “Yes, we were very wrong not to go home immediately.”
“One’s always wrong not to be right,” replied Uncle Prudent.
At that moment, a long sigh escaped from the darkest corner of the cell.
“What was that?” demanded Phil Evans.
“Nothing! … Frycollin dreaming.”
And Uncle Prudent resumed:
“Between the moment we were seized, a few steps from the clearing, and the moment we were thrown into this pigeonhole, no more than two minutes passed. So it’s clear these people haven’t brought us outside of Fairmont Park …”
“And if they had, we would have felt a movement of transference.”
“Right,” replied Uncle Prudent. “So there’s no doubt we’ve been locked in the compartment of a vehicle—one of those long prairie wagons, maybe, or a circus wagon …”
“Of course! If it had been a boat moored to the banks of the Schuylkill River, we would have recognized a kind of swaying from side to side, brought about by the current.”
“Right, and right again,” repeated Uncle Prudent, “and I think that, since we’re still in the clearing, now or never is the time to escape, and seek out that Robur later on …”
“And make him pay dearly for his attack on the liberty of two citizens of the United States of America!”
“Dearly, very dearly!”
“But who is that man? … Where does he come from? … Is he an Englishman, a German, a Frenchman …”
“He’s a wretch, and that’s enough,” replied Uncle Prudent.—“Now, to work!”
The two of them, with open hands, fingers outstretched, felt at the walls of the compartment for a joint or a fissure. Nothing. Nothing either at the door. It was hermetically sealed, and it would have been impossible to force the lock. Therefore they had to make a hole and escape by it. There remained the question of whether bowie knives could cut into the walls, if their blades would not blunt or break in the process.
“But where is that ceaseless vibration coming from?” asked Phil Evans, much surprised at the continuing frrrr.
“The wind, no doubt,” replied Uncle Prudent.
“The wind? … Until midnight, it seemed to me that the evening
