“He’ll get tired of that in a minute,” said the crimson-clothed imp. “Be ready to grab the instant he lets up.”
In truth, Tommy was unable to keep up those kicking movements for more than a few moments. He soon began to pant, and the instant he ceased snapping his bare feet through the air the owl seized an ankle. On the opposite side the clown did the same, and both clung fast with such strength that Tucker could not jerk his feet away.
“Oh, say, I don’t see any fun in this,” protested the little chap. “Ouch! Thunderation, that’s warm! Look out, you’ll have my Trilbys against the old thing! Wow! wow! I can’t stand that. It’s too much! Oh, say, let up, will you? If this is a joke, you’re carrying it too far.”
“It’s no joke,” grimly declared Satan. “We mean business. When you fully understand that, you may come to your senses and decide to sign this little confession of your treachery to the baseball team.”
“Say, give me a chance to think it over, will you?” panted Tucker. “You’re blistering my feet now—on my soul you are!”
“That’s where we intend to blister them, on the sole,” said the leader. “Lower his toddlers a moment, boys. Let’s see if he is coming to his senses. But keep a firm hold on his ankles. If he doesn’t agree to our terms, we’ll warm him up again in a moment.”
“You’re very rude and cruel,” said Tucker. “Jinks, I believe you did blister my feet! If you have, I’m going to murder somebody! I’ll murder the whole bunch of you!”
“Isn’t he dangerous!” mocked the clown.
“Better let me put an end to him,” said the executioner, spitting on his hands and grasping the ax handle.
Beyond the flaring pan of burning grease the bear grinned and yawned.