Waymark mentally agreed that it was.  His behaviour might seem cowardly, but—­to say nothing of the loathsomeness of a wrestle with Slimy—­he knew very well that any struggle, or a shout for help, would mean his death.  He hesitated, felt ashamed, but looked at Slimy’s red eye, and lay down.  In taking the position indicated, he noticed that three very large iron hooks had been driven firmly into the floor, in a triangular shape.  Just beside the lower one of these his feet had to rest; his head lay between the other two.  Slimy now proceeded to bind his captive’s feet together with strong cord, and then attach them firmly to the hook; then bidding him sit up for a moment, he made his hands fast behind his back; lastly, Waymark being again recumbent, a rope was passed once round his neck, and each end of it firmly fastened to one of the remaining hooks.  This was not a pleasant moment, but, the operation completed, Waymark found that, though he could not move his head an inch, there was no danger of strangulation as long as he remained quiet.  In short, he was bound as effectually as a man could be, yet without much pain.  The only question was, how long he would have to remain thus.

Slimy examined his work, and nodded with satisfaction.  Then he took up the satchel again, opened it, and for a few moments kept diving his long black fingers into the coins, whilst his face was transformed to an expression of grim joy.  Presently, having satisfied himself with the feel of the money, he transferred it all to a pocket inside his ragged coat.

“Now, Mr. Waymark,” he recommenced, seating himself on the chair Waymark had previously occupied, “I ain’t quite done with ill-conveniencin’ you.  I’m sorry to say I’ll ’ave jist to put a bit of a gag on, to prevent you from ‘ollerin’ out too soon; but before I do that, I’ve jist got a word or two to say.  Let’s spend our last time together in a friendly way.”

In spite of his alarm, Waymark observed with astonishment the change which had come over the man’s mode of speech.  In all their previous intercourse, Slimy had shown himself barely articulate; for the most part it was difficult to collect meaning from his grunts and snarls.  His voice was still dreadfully husky, and indeed seemed unused to the task of uttering so many words, but for all that he spoke without hesitation, and with a reserve of force which made his utterances all the more impressive.  Having bespoken his hearer’s attention in this deliberate way, he became silent, and for a while sat brooding, his fingers still busy among the coins in his pocket.

“I don’t rightly know how old I may be,” he began at length, “but it’s most like about fifty; we’ll say fifty.  For fifty years I’ve lived in this world, and in all that time I can’t remember not one single ’appy day, not one.  I never knowed neither father nor mother; I never knowed not a soul as belonged to me.  Friends I ’ave had; four of ’em;