Before he could see who it was, or ere he could cry out, a cloak was thrown over his head and he was picked up and carried away bodily.
Donald was not the boy to give in without a struggle, but kick and squirm as he might, he could not free himself. Presently those who were carrying him stopped and laid him on the sidewalk. Then he heard a knock and a gate opened. Then he was lifted up again and, almost before he knew it, he was thrust into a little room—a closet it seemed—and the door closed upon him.
It was a hot night and the little place was stifling.
"I'll smother if I don't get out of this," he muttered.
Slowly he unwrapped the cloak from about his head and at last freed himself completely from its folds; but he secured little relief from the heat.
The room could not have been more than six feet square and it did not take Donald long to run his hand clear around the wall.
There was only one door, that through which he had been thrust, and it was locked. He pounded upon it, but to no avail. Then he sat down to think.
"There is certainly no use to sweat myself to death," he told himself. "I'd better be as quiet as I can. There is air enough coming under the door so I won't suffocate, so I might just as well wait and see what will turn up."
He ran his hand all over his automatic and found it in good shape. Then he leaned back against the wall opposite the door and waited. Ten minutes later the door was suddenly yanked open, another figure was bundled into the closet and the door slammed shut, almost before Donald could think.