That was the customary cowardly threat Ward made when he found himself caught in any of his madcap pranks. His rich father was a man of considerable influence in Stanhope, and many a man dared not treat the banker's son to the whipping he so richly deserved simply because it might be that his bread and butter depended in a meas
ure on the good will or the whim of the magnate.
But the sexton did not seem to be disturbed. Perhaps he had little reason to believe Mr. Kenwood could influence the trustees of the church to dispose of his services. Then again, it might be that he received so small a sum for taking charge of the property, that he cared little whether he kept his job or not.
At any rate, be that as it might, Peter lost no time in starting to search the pockets of the squirming prisoner. Ward tried in every way he could devise to render this task difficult; but then Peter had half a dozen lads of his own over in the little white cottage near the church, and was doubtless accustomed to handling obstreperous boys.
"Vat is dis, poys?" he asked, as he drew something into view.
There was an immediate craning of necks, and then from several came the significant cry:
"It is the black mask, all right! He's the guilty bell-ringer, Peter!"
"What's all this you're talking about, you sillies? I never saw that thing before. Somebody must have stuck it in my pocket for a joke!" and Ward stopped struggling, as if he knew it would no longer be to his advantage.
When caught in a hole he could whip around