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 to break the rope that bound him until the veins started out on his forehead from the strain. Charity was back at the table searching vainly for a knife when heavy feet descending from the deck sent her to the cabin windows once more.

Captain Jaffray came down into the cabin. He looked at each suspiciously; but finding Young Cy still lying bound where he had left him on the floor and Charity gazing silently out at the low, marshy river banks they were passing, he said nothing, merely glowering darkly as he passed through into his stateroom and closed the door.

As though to taunt them the spyglass rolled to and fro with the motion of the boat—thumpity-thump, thumpity-thump—striking a box at one end and a pewter candlestick holder at the other end of the table. Charity seated herself upon the floor beside Young Cy, her thoughts running desperately, like a mill race, trying to think of some plan of escape. Young Cy, too, was silent, cudgeling his brain as to means toward that end. But their plight seemed absolutely hopeless. They could do nothing—at any rate, nothing until they had reached the end of this dreadful journey, for, though Young Cy could swim, had there been a chance to jump overboard and so escape from the ship that way, Charity could not swim. Besides, the river was widening into the rougher waters of Newark Bay, and even Young Cy's stout heart might quail at thought of dropping into the icy water there and fighting his way through the waves to shore.

And now, as though to make matters more dismal, the afternoon sunshine began to wane. Once the sun