“Ritter and his crowd are coming!” he called, as he came into the building.
It was now that Jack acted. He ran to the doorway, and seeing Ritter at a distance waved his hand wildly.
“Hurry up! You’re late!” he called out, imitating Bock’s voice as much as possible.
Not dreaming that anything was wrong, Reff Ritter and his cronies quickened their pace and soon came up to the ice house.
“Where are you?” called out Coulter.
“Here, inside,” was the muffled answer. “Come in, the place is empty.”
Ritter entered, followed by Coulter and Paxton. They saw somebody move at the rear end of the building and started in that direction. Each had hardly taken a dozen steps when he found himself attacked from behind. A long bag was thrown over his head and pulled to his knees and tied fast there.
“Hi, you! What does this mean?” roared Ritter, trying in vain to clear himself of the bag. Then he commenced to cough, for the bag was full of dust.
“Silence—unless you want to be buried deep in the sawdust,” commanded Jack, in a heavy, unnatural voice.
“Do—don’t!” spluttered Paxton. “If yo—you bury us in that we—we’ll smother to death!”