"I don't believe he'll get out of that," said Reade grimly, "Now, we'll fix his feet."
This, too, was done, and Sambo lay helpless on the ground.
"You'll make a fine-looking jailbird, my friend," mocked Tom, looking down at the prisoner. "Nor did any man ever better deserve the striped suit that the State of Alabama will present you. Now, Nicolas, I'll stay and watch this black treasure while you run and find help."
"Senor, you go yourself," begged the Mexican. "The men will obey you more queeckly than they would me."
"Oh, you find some of the men and tell 'em to come here to get the fellow who has been blowing up the wall, and they'll come fast enough," smiled Tom.
"But, Senor, suppose thees scoundrel free himself?"
"I won't let him, Nicolas."
"But eef he do?" persisted the Mexican. "Then, as I have shown you, Senor,
I can take fine care of heem!"
"There's something in that, too," laughed Tom. "Nicolas, I don't believe it will be risking you any if I leave you here. Besides, I won't have to be gone very long."
"If this black scoundrel he get restless, Senor, I will amuse heem with my forefinger."