"The police!"
"Yes—the police—state troopers, federal officers and all. But don't think you're going to have a chance of squealing on us. I'm going to fix you, as I should have done a long while ago."
The other voice rose, replete with terror.
"No! No! You won't do that, Snackley! Let me live!"
Fenton Hardy crept swiftly over to the door. He saw Snackley standing by a small cot in a cell-like room. On the cot crouched a haggard man whose hands were handcuffed behind him. His feet were shackled to one leg of the iron cot.
Snackley, with a grim look of cruelty on his face, was raising a heavy club he had picked up.
There was no time to lose. The detective sprang through the doorway.
He plunged at Snackley just as the smuggler raised the club to strike.
Snackley reeled against the wall, with Fenton Hardy at his throat. Desperately, the smuggler tried to raise the weapon, but the detective had seized his wrist. They swayed to and fro, stumbling about on the muddy floor. Mr. Hardy had the advantage in that he had taken Snackley by surprise. He pinned the smuggler against the wall, twisting his wrist. The club fell to the floor.
