Though he had heard the discharge of the pistol, Jim Hunter did not stop to reach for his 246 own revolver. He leaped through into the corridor, his pocket police club in hand.
“There he is, but you won’t have to club him any,” announced Hank, dryly, pointing to the groaning Dalton. “He’ll eat out of your hand, now—will Anson Dalton.”
Pausing only to drop his club to the floor, Jim Hunter whipped out a pair of handcuffs from a cavernous pocket, bent over Dalton, and––
Snap-click! The troublesome enemy of the motor boat boys was not only badly hurt, but a secure prisoner as well.
Now, Seaton and the boys gathered about the law’s captive.
“I reckon you’ll have to git up,” announced Jim Hunter, putting a helping hand under one of Dalton’s arms.
“I can’t—oh, stop! Let up! My foot’s crushed. I can’t stand on it!” yelled Dalton.
Hunter came quickly to realize the fact that Dalton could not stand with much comfort. Joe came up with a chair, onto which the prisoner was allowed to sink.
“Oh, you boys think you’ve finished things for me, don’t you?” leered Dalton, glaring around him in a rage. “But you haven’t. You’ll soon find that you’ve just begun to stir up trouble for yourselves.” 247
“Go easy, man—do!” begged Hunter, soothingly. “Of course yer pet corn feels bad just now. But, say! That’s the niftiest way of stopping a bad man, I reckon, thet was ever invented.”