Lost on the Moon by Roy Rockwood (ebook pdf reader for pc .TXT) 📖

have to be as comfortable as you can.

I wish you no harm, but I must keep you here.

 

“I will feed you well before I go, and put some water where you can get

it. But I must leave you tied. I’ll not gag you, for, no matter how you

yell, no one will hear you. I have posted a notice in front of this

place that it is under the watch of the police, so no tramps will

venture in, and your friends will not come back.

 

“Now, just make yourself comfortable here, and I’ll go to the moon in

your place. I think I shall enjoy the trip. As I said, you will be

released to-morrow night, several hours after the projectile has left

the earth.”

 

“How do you know it is to start to-morrow morning?” asked Mark.

 

“Oh, I have been spying around, and I overheard the professors talking.

I know a thing or two, and I’ll be on hand, on time, in your place!

Now, I have to leave you. I’ve left ten dollars to pay for your suit,

which I need to disguise myself with.”

 

Then the man was gone, and Mark was left with his bitter thoughts to

keep him company. The whole daring scheme of the man had been revealed.

He did look something like Mark, and, attired in the lad’s clothes, and

by keeping his face concealed, he might pass himself off as Jack’s

chum; at least, until after the projectile had started.

 

“And then, as he says, it will be too late to return to earth and get

me,” thought Mark bitterly. “Oh, why did I ever try to learn this man’s

secret? Who is he, anyhow? Why didn’t I wait for Jack at the barn, as I

promised? It’s all my fault. I wonder if I can’t get loose?”

 

Mark struggled several hours desperately and at last he felt the ropes

giving slightly. He redoubled his efforts. Strand by strand the cords

parted. He put all his efforts into one last attempt, and to his great

joy he felt his hands separate. He was partly free!

 

But scarcely half his task was accomplished. He had yet to discover the

secret of the hidden room—a room, as he afterward learned, which had

been built during slavery days to conceal the poor black men who were

escaping from the South.

 

“But now I have my hands to work with!” exulted Mark.

 

Resting a bit after his strenuous labors, he took a long drink of water

and attacked the ropes on his feet. They were comparatively easy to

loosen, and soon he stood up unbound.

 

“Now for the secret panel!” he exclaimed, for he was convinced that it

was by some such means that his captor had entered and left. As has

already been explained, Mark knew on which side of his prison the

opening was likely to be—it would be where the warning knocks had

sounded. He began a minute inspection of that wall.

 

But if Mark hoped to speedily discover the secret he was doomed to

disappointment. He went over every inch of the surface, seemingly, and

pressed on every depression or projection that met his eye, as he

passed the candle flame along the wall.

 

Success did not reward him, and, as hour after hour passed, and the

candle burned lower and lower, Mark began to despair.

 

“I must escape before the projectile leaves,” he murmured. “It will

never do to let them take that man with them under the impression that

they have me. I must escape! I will!”

 

Once more he began the tiresome task of seeking the secret spring. The

candle was spluttering in the socket now. It would burn hardly another

minute. Desperately Mark sought.

 

At last, just as the candle gave a dying gasp and flared brightly up

prior to going out, the lad saw a small screw head he had not noticed

before. It was sunk deep in a board.

 

“I’ll press that and see what happens!” he exclaimed.

 

With a suddenness that was startling, he found himself in total

darkness. The candle had burned out, but he had his finger on the

screw. He pressed it with all his force.

 

There was a rumbling sound in the darkness, a movement as if some heavy

body had slid out of the way, and Mark felt a breath of air on his

cheeks. Then he saw a dim light.

 

“Oh, I’m out! I’m out!” he cried joyously, breathing a prayer of

thankfulness at his deliverance. “I’m free! I pushed on the right

spring, and the panel slid back!”

 

He fairly leaped forward. The morning light was streaming in through

the broken windows. He saw himself in the old hall of the mansion, at

the head of the stairs, in a sort of anteroom, the mantle of which

apartment had swung aside to give him egress from the secret chamber

through a hole in the wall. He was free!

 

“But am I in time?” he cried. “It is morning—and about ten o’clock, I

should judge. I’ve been working to get free all night. Will I be in

time?”

 

He gave one last look behind at his prison and sprang down the rickety

stairs. He had but one thought—to reach home in time to unmask the

villain who was impersonating him—to be in time to make the journey to

the moon.

 

“But it’s several miles, and I can’t walk very fast,” murmured Mark.

“I’m too stiff and weak. How can I do it?”

 

He thought of making his way to the nearest farm house, and asking for

the loan of a horse and carriage, but he looked so much like a tramp

that no farmer would lend him a horse.

 

“And I need to make speed,” he murmured.

 

At that moment he heard a noise down the road. It was a steady “chug-chug,” like some distant motor-boat, but there was no water near at

hand.

 

“A motorcycle!” exclaimed Mark. “Some one is coming on a motorcycle.

Oh, if I could only borrow it!”

 

He ran down into the road. He could see the rider now. To his joy it

was Dick Johnson—the lad who had brought him the mysterious note.

 

“Hi Dick! Dick! hold on!” cried Mark.

 

The lad on the motor gave one glance at the ragged figure that had

hailed him. Then he turned on more power to escape from what he thought

was a savage tramp.

 

“Wait! Stop! I want that motorcycle!” cried Mark.

 

“Well, you’re not going to get it!” yelled back Dick. “I’ll send the

police after you.”

 

Mark couldn’t understand. Then a glance down at his ragged garments

showed him what was the matter.

 

“Wait! Hold on, Dick!” he cried, running forward. “I’m Mark Sampson!

I’ve had a terrible time! I was captured by that mysterious man, and

he’s got my clothes. I must get home quick!”

 

Dick heard, but scarcely understood. However, he comprehended that his

friend was in trouble, and he wanted to help him. He slowed up, and

Mark reached him.

 

“Lend me your motorcycle, Dick,” begged Mark. “I must get home in a

hurry to unmask a scoundrel. I’ll leave your machine for you at our

house. I won’t hurt it. I’m in a hurry! Get off!”

 

Somewhat dazed, Dick dismounted, and Mark climbed into the saddle. He

began to pedal, and then threw in the gasolene and spark. The cycle

chugged off.

 

“I’ll leave it for you at our house,” Mark called back. “I’m going on a

trip to the moon, and I don’t want to be late.”

 

He was fast disappearing in a cloud of dust, while Dick, gazing after

him, remarked:

 

“Well, I always thought those fellows were crazy to go off in

projectiles and things like that, and now I’m sure of it. Going to the

moon! Well, I only hope he doesn’t take my motorcycle there!”

 

Mark sped on, turning the handle levers to get the last notch of speed

out of the cycle. Would he be in time?