“Do you mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it because I realize that you’re just fools enough to cook my feet unless I do sign.”
“Release his hands, boys,” directed Satan. “Stand close around him and be ready to jump on him if he makes a scrap of it.”
“I’m not as big a fool as you fellows are,” mocked Tommy. “You’re six to my one, and I have no idea of scrapping.”
In a few moments they set his hands free, and he stretched and rubbed his arms with grunts of relief.
“I hope some time I’ll have the pleasure of giving a few of you fellows some of the same medicine I’ve had to take to-night,” he said.
“Here,” said Satan, placing a short piece of board across Tucker’s knees and spreading the confession upon it. “Get ready to make your autograph. Here’s a fountain pen.”
“Goodness! give me time,” urged Tucker. “How do you expect a fellow to write when his blood is stagnated? Why, even my fingers are stiff.”
“Watch him,” warned the Turk. “He’s tricky.”
The executioner lifted and poised the ax.