“No, no! Mas’ Don; run for it, my lad, and get help if you can.”
Like a flash it occurred to Don that long before he could get help Jem would be overpowered and carried off, and with the natural fighting instinct fully raised, he struck out with all his might as he strove to get to the poor fellow, who was writhing and heaving, and giving his captors a tremendous task to hold him.
“Here, give him something to keep him quiet,” growled a voice.
“No, no; get hold of his hands; that’s right. Serve this cockerel the same. Down with him, quick!” cried the officer sharply; and in obedience to his words the men hung on to poor Jem so tenaciously that he was dragged down on the rough pavement, and a couple of men sat panting upon him while his wrists were secured, and his voice silenced by a great bandage right over his mouth.
“You cowards!” Jem tried to roar, as, breathless with exertion, bleeding from a sharp back-handed blow across the mouth, and giddy with excitement and the effects of a rough encounter between his head and the wall, Don made one more attempt to drag himself free, and then stood panting and mastered by two strong men.
“Show the light,” said the officer, and the lanthorn was held close to Don’s face.
“Well, if the boy can fight like that,” said the officer, “he shall.”
“Let us go,” cried Don. “Help! He—”
A jacket was thrown over his head, as the officer said mockingly,—