“What’s the use to kick him?” said the bomb-thrower. “He can’t feel you now. He is finished. Let him alone.”
“I’d like to haf heem feel me for one leettul minute!” grated Durant, as he gave the boy another brutal kick.
“Come, come,” said Glanworth. “What’s the good of that! Pick him up and dump him in the back room. I’ll unlock the door.”
He did so.
“Take hold,” ordered Linton, the bomb-thrower.
“I don’t want to touch him,” shivered Glanworth, drawing back, as if still afraid of Frank. “Two of you are enough.”
“I am enough for zat job,” declared Durant, as he caught the supposed-to-be dead boy by the heels and dragged him across the floor.
Frank permitted himself to be dragged in this manner, like a sack of flour. Having hauled the boy into the dark little back room, Durant let his heels drop to the floor with a thump.
“Stay zere till you are taken out to sink to ze bottom of ze river,” growled the malicious little Frenchman, as he turned and left the room.
The door closed, the key rattled in the lock, the bolt turned with a rusty, grating sound, and Frank was a captive in that stuffy little room. Listening, he heard the footsteps of his enemies die out in the distance.