Fred closed and locked the door again after they had entered. The sound of the key being turned in the lock started the frightened boy into protesting again. He judged others by Buck's standard, and the bare thought of finding himself alone and a prisoner, in the power of those he would have injured, seemed to give him a case of the "trembles," as Colon called it.
"Now I want you to take a look into his pockets," the tall boy remarked.
Immediately he uttered a triumphant exclamation.
"See here, Fred, he had a whole lot of matches with him!" he called out. "Looks like he was ready for business, all right."
"Say, I always carry matches with me, and you know it, Chris Colon," protested the alarmed prisoner, vigorously.
"Perhaps you do, but never so many as these," Colon went on. "I kind of reckon you thought you'd have good need of 'em this night. But what're you carrying under your arm that way, Fred? Saw you step over, and pick somethin' up outside there. Find anything worth while; another feller's cap, maybe?"
"No, it was this," and Fred held an object up.
"What's that? Looks like a bundle of old rags!" remarked Colon, quickly; while the prisoner gasped and shivered worse than ever.
"There was something more; what do you think of this?" and for the second time Fred elevated his hand, containing an object that made Colon utter a cry of rage.
"A bottle!" he ejaculated. "What's in it, Fred? Three to one I c'n guess. Kerosene!"