thus transferred to another steamer—one which had formerly been in the East Indian trade but which was now acting as a Russian supply boat.
"What a dirty craft!" was his mental comment, after having been thrust into a pen which was little better than a horse stall. The supply boat was loaded to its fullest capacity, so quarters for all on board were limited.
Two days passed and he received food which was scarcely fit to eat. When he protested he was threatended with a flogging. The air was foul and he began to fear that he would become sick.
"I won't be able to stand this much longer," he thought, dismally. "If they want to kill me why don't they do it at once and have done with it?"
On the following morning a surprise awaited him. He heard two Russian officers pause in front of his pen and one said to the other:
"Here is the prisoner, Captain Barusky."
"Is it the fellow named Russell?" was the question from Captain Barusky, the rascal who had aided Ivan Snokoff to make so much trouble for Gilbert Pennington.
"The same."
"They did not capture his friend?"
"No—in the struggle he slipped away."
