The blow caught Horning in the arm, and he uttered a shrill cry of pain.
“You have broken my arm!”
“Not quite as bad as that I hope,” said Bob. “Do you intend to mind now?”
“No.”
Again the swindler made a dash for Bob.
Once more the stick descended, but this time Horning dodged, and, putting out his foot, he tripped Bob up.
When the young photographer arose, Horning was again running as fast as his long legs would permit. But Bob was equal to the emergency. He picked up a stone, and, with unerring aim, flung it at the retreating form.
The missile caught Horning in the back of the head. He staggered, tried to recover, and then fell forward.
He was partly stunned, and before he recovered Bob was on top of him. In his pocket the young photographer had a strong cord, and with this he bound Horning’s hands behind him.
“You have broken my skull!” moaned Horning, completely subdued when he saw how helpless he now was.