"Four!"
And then:
"Five! Tomba, your friends are cheerful about your fate, aren't they? Six!"
Vicente Tomba spoke, sharply, hissingly. Now some stir was noticeable among the wretches, though whether they meant to obey or to try to rush the lone soldier was more than Overton could guess.
"Seven!"
Hal's voice, as steady as ever, must have carried conviction with it. Certainly Tomba's shuddering had increased, though the little brown man, no match in muscle for the white soldier, made not the least effort to wrest himself away from that dangerous grip.
"Eight!" announced Hal Overton, his voice on the verge of absolute cheeriness.
Again Tomba spoke, this time still more angrily.
There was a shuffling of feet, as the men moved further away. Then one of the wretches stepped forward and threw open a door, just as Hal came calmly out with:
"Nine!"