“What did he do to you then?” asked Ikey Rosenmeyer, his eyes big with interest.
“He drove me before him down into this hollow. He had got rid of his bundle somewhere. I didn’t see him drop it. His uniform, you know, Morgan.”
“I see.”
“And down here he made me strip off my clothes—even my shoes. I tell you, I just hate that Heinie.”
“That’s wot yuh wants to do,” growled Willum Johnson. “’Ate the ’Un or yuh can’t lick ’im proper.”
“No fear,” said Belding, nodding. “I have stored up a proper hate for them now. This fellow is the meanest of the bunch. He got out of the duds I am wearing as slick as you please—keeping me under the muzzle of his gun all the time.”
“Sounds just like a wild west movie, doesn’t it?” suggested Ikey.
“Nothing so good—don’t think it,” growled George Belding.
“Anyhow, he got these things off and made me get into them. He put on my uniform meanwhile—quick as a cat he is. You got a good look at him, didn’t you, Morgan?”
“I’d know him again,” declared Whistler grimly.