Lying there, in enforced stillness, Jack Benson, after an hour or so, actually fell asleep.  A good, healthy sleeper at all times, he slumbered on through the night.  Once he awoke, just a trifle chilled.  He heard one of the dogs snoring overhead.  Crawling under one of the blankets, Benson went to sleep again.

“Hey, yo’, Marse Benson.  It am mawnin’.  Time yo’ was wakin’ up an’ movin’ erlong!”

It was the voice of the same mulatto, calling down into the pit.  Again the rays of the lantern illumined the darkness.  Both bull-dogs displayed their ferocious muzzles over the edge of the pit.  Jack sat up cautiously, not caring to attract unfriendly interest from the dogs.

“Ah want yo’ to take off all yo’ clothes ‘cept yo’ undahclothes, an’ den Ah’ll let down a string fo’ yo’ to tie ’em to,” declared the mulatto, grinning.  “Yo’ needn’t try ter slip yo’ wallet, nor nuffin’ outer mah sight, cause Ah’ll be watchin’.  Now, git a hurry on, Marse Benson, or Ah’ll done push dem dawgs ober de aidge ob dis flooring.”

Jack hesitated only a moment.  Then, with a grunt of rage, he began removing his outer garments.  Down came a twine, to the lower end of which the boy made fast his garments, one after another.  His money and valuables went up in the pockets, for the sharp eyes of the mulatto could not have been eluded by any amateur slight-of-hand.

“Now, yo’ cap an’ yo’ shoes,” directed the grinning monster above.

These, too, Benson passed up at the end of the cord.  The mulatto disappeared, leaving the two dogs still on guard.  At last, back came the light and the yellowish man with it.

“Yo’ sho’ is good picking, Marse Benson,” grinned the guide of the night before.  “Yo’ has good pin feathers.  Ah hope Ah’ll suttinly meet yo’ again.”

“I hope we do meet at another time!” Jack Benson flared back, wrathily.  The cool insolence of the fellow cut him to the marrow, yet where was the use of disobeying a rascal flanked by two such willing and capable dogs?

“Now, yo’ jes’ put dese t’ings on, Marse Benson, ef yo’ please, sah,” mocked the mulatto, tossing down some woefully tattered, nondescript garments, and, after them, a battered, rimless Derby hat and a pair of brogans out at the toes.

“I’ll be hanged if I’ll put on such duds!” quivered Jack.

“Jes’ as yo’ please, ob co’se, Marse Benson,” came the answer, from above.  “But, ef yo’ don’ put dem t’ings on, yo’ll sho’ly hab ter gwine back ter ‘Napolis in yo’ undahclo’s.  An’ yo’s gwine back right away, too, so, ef yo’ wants ter gwine back weahin’ ernuff clo’es—­”

“Oh, well, then—!” ground out the submarine boy, savagely enough.

He attired himself in these tattered ends of raiment.  Had he not been so angry he must have roared at sight of his comical self when the dressing was completed.

CHAPTER VIII:  A YOUNG CAPTAIN IN TATTERS