“I guess I am, all right,” came the dogged answer.
“We’ll have to put these on yo’, suh.”
“Handcuffs?” rose the voice of Oliver Dixon, in protest. “Ugh! Such things belong to felons!”
“Well, suh, what do yo’ consider yo’se’f!” demanded the policeman.
A groan that was almost a sob escaped the prisoner. Those waiting above heard the steel circlets click. Then they descended.
Oliver Dixon sat on one of the transom seats in the little cabin, his face a ghastly gray.
“I guess you’re glad to see this, Halstead?” demanded the prisoner, holding up his manacled hands.
“As sorry as I can be!” retorted Tom Halstead, heartily. “It’s a tough sight, Dixon.”
“It certainly is,” groaned Henry Tremaine, turning to hide his face.
“If your ward, Tremaine, had been kind enough to accept me, I never would have come to this pass,” declared the young man, coolly.