There was some desultory conversation between the two men
in the car, but it was carried on in an odd, sibilant language
which the boy did not understand, but which he divined to be
Chinese. He thought how every other boy in the school would envy
him, and the thought was stimulating, nerving. On the very first
day of his holidays he was become the central figure of a
Chinatown drama.
The last traces of fear fled. His position was uncomfortable and
his limbs were cramped, but he resigned himself, with something
almost like gladness, and began to look forward to that which lay
ahead with a zest and a will to be no passive instrument which
might have surprised his captors could they have read the mind of
their captive.
The journey seemed almost interminable, but young Kerry suffered
it in stoical silence until the car stopped and he was lifted and
carried down stone steps into some damp, earthy-smelling place.
Some distance was traversed, and then many flights of stairs were
mounted, some bare but others carpeted.
Finally he was deposited in a chair, and as he raised his hand to
the scarf, which toward the end of the journey had been bound
more tightly about his head so as to prevent him from seeing at
all, he heard a door closed and locked.
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