“No, you won’t; you’ll come out now.”
“Who made you boss over me?” demanded the fisherman.
“Nobody; but you’ve got to come. Do you see that?”
And he pointed to the gun, which I held to my shoulder.
Carney looked at the weapon, and turned pale.
“Put that down!” he cried.
“Not a bit of it,” I returned. “You have got to do as Ford says. I give you two minutes in which to make up your mind.”
“I won’t come.”
“I think you will.”