The others cried out and drew together. Summersby stood still, watching the hand. It poked the stick forward in short jabs, once just missing his head. Then it made a wide sweep and the stick collided with the fat Mexican. He squealed, and at once the hand shot forward, exposing still more of the thick arm, and prodded him away from the group. He skipped toward a far corner, but the stick had him now and was tapping him relentlessly toward the open end.
"Amigos!" he yelled, his voice full of anguish. "Por favor, save me!"
"Go along with it peaceably," advised the Negro youth frightenedly. "Don't get it annoyed." He was shaking and his glasses kept sliding down his sweaty nose so that he had to push them up continually.
"What is it?" the woman was asking, over and over.
The Mexican was driven to the edge of the room. The place beyond seemed to be much larger than their prison. He waved his hands despairingly.
"Now, quick, you have only a momentito to save me! Don't stand there!"
The stick touched him and he jumped as if he had been shocked. The wall began to slide into place again.