He jumped to the pilot house, yelling to Ned to start the motor, but it
was too late. They were hemmed in by a cordon of cavalry, and it would
have been madness to have rushed the Falcon into them, for she would
have been wrecked, even if Tom could have succeeded in sending her
through the lines.
"I guess it's all up with us," groaned Ned.
And it seemed to; for, a moment later, an officer and several aides
galloped forward, calling out something in Russian.
"What is it?" asked Tom.
"He says we are under arrest," translated the exile.
"What for?" demanded the young inventor.
Ivan Petrofsky shrugged his shoulders.
"It is of little use to ask--now," he answered. "It may be we have
violated some local law, and can pay a fine and go, or we may be taken
for just what we are, or foreign spies, which we are not. It is best to
keep quiet, and go with them."
"Go where?" cried Tom.
"To prison, I suppose," answered the exile. "Keep quiet, and leave it to
me. I will do all I can. I don't believe they will recognize me.
"Bless my search warrant!" cried Mr. Damon. "In a Russian prison! That
is terrible!"
A few minutes later, expostulations having been useless, our friends
were led away between guards who carried ugly looking rifles, and who
looked more ugly and menacing themselves.
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