“No! No! You won’t do that, Snackley! Let me live!”
Fenton Hardy crept swiftly over to the door. He saw Snackley standing by a small cot in a cell-like room. On the cot crouched a haggard man whose hands were handcuffed behind him. His feet were shackled to one leg of the iron cot.
Snackley, with a grim look of cruelty on his face, was raising a heavy club he had picked up.
There was no time to lose. The detective sprang through the doorway.
He plunged at Snackley just as the smuggler raised the club to strike.
Snackley reeled against the wall, with Fenton Hardy at his throat. Desperately, the smuggler tried to raise the weapon, but the detective had seized his wrist. They swayed to and fro, stumbling about on the muddy floor. Mr. Hardy had the advantage in that he had taken Snackley by surprise. He pinned the smuggler against the wall, twisting his wrist. The club fell to the floor.
Snackley plunged forward and they lost their footing, rolling about in the mud. Suddenly, Fenton Hardy wrenched his arm free, sprawled over and managed to seize Snackley’s revolver. He pressed it against Snackley’s side.
The smuggler gave in. He flung his arms above his head.
“I’m licked,” he muttered sullenly.
They got slowly to their feet, Fenton Hardy keeping a watchful eye on the captive. Upstairs they could hear the uproar continuing as the police still gave battle to the smugglers.