A long-drawn-out sigh, a still queerer look in his face, then the
scoundrel broke forth again:

"It's your own fault, after all, boy, and there's no help for it."

"By and by I suppose you'll enlighten me as to what 'it' means?" hinted
Jack, trying hard to bolster up a courage that, none the less, would
ooze and drop.

Millard's only answer was to bend over the boy and roll him somewhat in
examining the prisoner's bonds. It was through this that Jack discovered
what he had not known before--namely, that his wrists, besides being
bound behind his back, were also lashed fast to something in the
flooring.

There was a queer little choke in Millard's breathing as he went out of
the room and returned with a bushel basket of shavings. These he
dumped on the floor, close to a wall. Then, again, he went out. When
he returned he was carrying a can of coal-oil. The contents he poured
over the shavings, then against the wall. Next, over the shavings, he
heaped three or four newspapers.

Jack Benson didn't ask questions. Millard went at it all in such a
business-like way that the submarine boy felt the words sticking in
his throat; they couldn't be uttered.

Finally, when all else was ready, Millard took the lighted candle out
of the candlestick.