might be traps in the house, there might be another deadly fence, or something like that.
Muggs was beginning to feel desperate. He knew that every second had its value now. He rolled over, sat up on the couch, and yawned.
"I sure hope the Black Star turns me loose to-morrow," he said. "He hinted that he might, after he pulled off to-night's stunt."
"Yes, and maybe he won't, unless the sheriff lets Landers and those two women go," the servant said.
"Gee, the sheriff won't do that. Even my boss couldn't make him do it. He's got those three in the jug, and there they'll stay, unless the Black Star rescues them himself." Muggs got up and walked slowly to the table. "There ain't any law against me havin' a smoke, is there?" he asked.
"Help yourself—anything like that goes as long as you behave," the servant replied.
"The Black Star has a good brand of cigarettes, I'll say that much for him," said Muggs. "My boss smokes the same kind."
"You're kinder crazy about that boss of yours, ain't you?" the servant asked.
"Sure! Why not? He saved my life, and he certainly has helped me since. He gives me a steady job, good money, and treats me decent."
"He ain't like the general run of bosses, then."
"I should say not!" Muggs declared.
He put a cigarette in his mouth and picked up a match. It was an awkward task with his bound wrists. He struck the match, held the flame to the end of the cigarette, and puffed a cloud of smoke.
