“Don’t try to draw da gun!” came the voice from the woods. “Shoot mighty quick if you do! Up with da hands!”
“It’s papa!” exclaimed little Felicia. “Papa! papa!”
Bart shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands.
“T’other one put up da hands,” came the voice.
“We are friends,” declared Frank quietly. “We have just saved your child from the hands of ruffians.”
“Put up da hands!” ordered the voice, and there was a clicking that seemed to tell of a rifle being cocked. “I’ll shoot if you don’t!”
Merry stood up boldly, facing the point from which the voice came, fearlessly saying:
“If you shoot, you will fire on those who have saved your child, which will prove you a dastard. I refuse to be held up road-agent style, and shall not lift my hands. Fire if you will!”
Silence for a moment, and then, quick as thought, the child leaned over and put her arms about Merry’s neck, crying:
“Don’t, papa—don’t! He beat the big, bad man who was carrying me away!”