“I’ll stay and watch the brats,” Ben offered, loath to leave his breakfast.
“We’ll be back in a minute,” cried Pete. “Take their guns and foller us.”
With a sigh Ben appropriated the cruisers’ rifles and disappeared in the woods at the heels of his blood-thirsty companions.
“Bub Thomas, if ever we had a chance it is now,” cried Stanley, straining at his cords.
“I’m choking myself to death trying to work loose,” gasped Bub, his swollen face bearing out his statement in part.
Groaning in mental as well as physical anguish Stanley rolled back and forth, struggling to release himself. “Oh, for an inch of freedom!” he sobbed. “If my finger was a bit longer I believe I could do it. It’s cruel! cruel to be held like this.”
“Oh, heavens, Stan!” sobbed Bub. “We’ve lost our one chance. They’re coming back.”
Stanley, bereft of all hope, caught the crashing sound in front of them. Suddenly he whispered, “It doesn’t sound like them.”
“Maybe it’s Nick, sent back to do the work,” shuddered Bub, now hanging very limp from the tree.
“The hemlock moves. Whoever it is he is very cautious,” whispered Stanley.
