He thrashed about, striving to regain his feet; but the torturing knee pinned him fast.
“Don’t get worked up,” his tormenter advised. “We just want you to do a few little tricks for us. Lift him up, Kipper!”
Dirk was jerked roughly to his feet, pinioned on both sides by strong arms. Behind him rose again the jeering voice of Ryan.
“Now, don’t go wild and hurt yourself. If you’re a nice baby, and do what we tell you, maybe we’ll let you off easy—maybe!”
Dirk choked, and found his voice. “You are a coward, Ryan! A coward and a bully!”
“Shut up!” came the savage answer. “Do you want to wake up the whole camp?” A sharp point of metal prodded the flesh of Dirk’s leg. “Feel that? Any more hot air and you’ll get a touch of this! Now, march!”
Biting his lip to keep back the cry that rose to his tongue, Dirk Van Horn was dragged through the woods. His blindfold was still knotted tightly over his eyes, and he was helpless in the hands of his captors. Soon, he could tell by the’ feel of smooth earth under the thin soles of his slippers that they had come to some sort of clearing. Here his torturers—he judged that there were three of them—halted. Again Ryan spoke.
“Now, you’ve got so much sportin’ goods with you, we thought you must be a swell athlete. We want to see what you can do on the high jump and the dash and the obstacle race. That right, boys?”
“I won’t do it,” said Dirk stubbornly. “Let me out of this, Ryan. If the camp director knew you were hazing me——”
“Shut up! Now, the first event will be the runnin’ high jump. When I say ‘go!’ you take off and show us how to break a record! Don’t try to pull off that blindfold, either, or you’ll get another jab with my knife. Ready?”