miable weaknesses. Anyhow, I might see 'im in a worse fix."

"Well, you're like to see him in a worse fix if you live long enough,"
returned the leader. "Haul now on this knot. It'll puzzle him to undo
that. Lend me your knife."

Flinders drew his glittering bowie-knife from its sheath and handed it
to his leader, who cut off the superfluous cordage with it, after having
bound the prisoner's wrists behind his back in a sailor-like manner.

In returning the knife to its owner, Gashford, who was fond of a
practical joke, tossed it high in the air towards him with a "Here,
catch."

The keen glittering thing came twirling down, but to the surprise of
all, the Irishman caught it by the handle as deftly as though he had
been a trained juggler.

"Thank your gineralship," exclaimed Paddy, amid a shout of laughter and
applause, bowing low in mock reverence. As he rose he made a wild
flourish with the knife, uttered an Indian war-whoop, and cut a caper.

In that flourish he managed to strike the cord that bound the prisoner,
and severed one turn of it. The barefaced audacity of the act (like
that of a juggler) caused it to pass unobserved. Even Tom, although he
felt the touch of the knife, was not aware of what had happened, for, of
course, a number of uncut turns of the cord still held his wrists
painfully tight.

"Now, lie down on your back," said Gashford, sternly, when the laugh
that Paddy had raised subsided.

Either the tone of this command, or the pain caused by his bonds, roused
Tom's anger, for he refused to obey.

"Lie down, ye spalpeen, whin the gineral bids ye," cried Flinders,
suddenly seizing his old friend by the collar and flinging him flat on
his back, in which act he managed to trip and fall on the top of him.

The opportunity was not a good one, nevertheless the energetic fellow
managed to whisper, "The rope's cut! Lie still!" in the very act of
falling.

"Well done, Paddy," exclaimed several of the laughing men, as Flinders
rose with a pretended look of discomfiture, and went towards the fire,
exclaiming--

"Niver mind, boys, I'll have me supper now. Hi! who's bin an' stole it
whin I was out on dooty? Oh! here it is all right. Now then, go to
work, an' whin the pipes is lighted I'll maybe sing ye a song, or tell
ye a story about ould Ireland."

CHAPTER THREE.

Obedient to orders, Tom Brixton lay perfectly still on his back, just
where he had fallen, wondering much whether the c