“Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you’ve been asked three times, and now you’ve got to mount that ladder.”
“Any man comes a-nigh me,” roared Mike, “I’ll—”
He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles.
“Step the first,” said the constable, coolly. “Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?”
“Yes, sir,” cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer’s legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike’s back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet.
“Murder!” yelled Mike, hoarsely.
“What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you’ll soon get used to it.”
The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free.
“Now then, Wimble, I’ve got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind.”
The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound.