A cold shiver ran over Ralph as his fingers were encased in the grooves of the iron hand.
He remembered having once seen a victim of the strike, a poor fellow who had gone around with the knuckles of one hand twisted so out of shape that he would never be able to straighten out his fingers again.
Ralph could not resist. If he shouted for help, he knew that he would be brutally silenced. He thought of his mother, of the bright ambitions about to be wrecked by two worthless, cruel enemies.
Then Ralph closed his eyes. He set his lips firmly, and silently prayed that his wicked inquisitors would not dare carry out fully their announced programme.
"I'm ready," sounded Bemis' heartless tones.
"So am I," chorused Ike. "You'll wish you'd minded your own business and let us alone, Ralph Fairbanks."
Bemis began to put the pressure on the vile instrument of torture. Ralph's breath came quick. He felt his fingers compress.
Chug!
Ralph strained his hearing at the new sound. He opened his eyes with a thrill.
The pressure on his hand was relaxed. The "nutcracker," released by Bemis with strange suddenness, dangled at Ralph's finger tips for an instant. Then it dropped harmless to the carpet with a dull clang.