"I'm not that green," retorted Glen. "You want to rob the bank. I'm through with you."
"Hold on, boy!" The strong hand of the big leader closed over his shoulder. "Not yet you ain't. We can't let you go off thinkin' that way about us."
Glen wriggled around until he could look into the face of the man who held him. His spirits dropped. It was no weak, trifling face such as J. Jervice exhibited. A hard, rough look—a cruel, remorseless look—a mean, ugly look—all these things he read in that face.
"Mebbe ye'll know me when ye see me agen," said the man.
Glen made no reply.
"I ain't figurin' on you seein' much more o' me, though, nor any of us. D'ye know what I'm goin' to do with you?"
"Send me back to the reform school?" guessed Glen, wishing from the bottom of his heart that he might get off so easily.
The man laughed as if at an excellent joke.
"You're funny, boy—positive funny, you are. Sendin' you to the penitentiary would be easy along o' what I'm goin' to do to you."
"I've never hurt you," cried Glen. "Let me go."