“Shove him in again, lads—”
Marks screamed and twisted terribly. “No, no! Yes, he’s my boss. Sure he is.”
“Don’t you fools know a man will swear to anything under torture?” demanded Hardrock furiously. “You’re going too far here. Cut this business out!”
Marks was hastily flung aside. They all turned to stare at him. Connie Dunlevy, waving a bottle in his free hand, gave a weak, drunken laugh.
“Glory be, he’s awake! Burn the boots off’m him, byes!”
The four lurched over. Hardrock made one desperate effort to pierce through the liquor fumes to their fuddled brains.
“Hold on, there, boys! You’ve got this thing all wrong. These men are whisky-runners, and they had captured me before you came along. I was getting away—”
Jimmy Basset leaned over and struck him across the mouth, heavily.
“Shut up wid you and your lies! Well we know it’s you that’s the whisky-runner, and behind all this deviltry. So it was them Greeks done the killin’, was it? Well, it was you behind it all, and it’s you we’ll have a bit o’ fun wid the night. Up wid him, lads! Up and shove him in!”
Hardrock felt himself picked up. The next instant, with a wild yell, the four men shoved him at the fire, shoved his feet and legs into the heart of the blazing embers. He made one frantic, frightful effort, kicked himself out of the flames, rolled aside. The four gripped him and lifted him again, with a maudlin yell of glee.