"What are we going to do with him?" cried Frank, his eyes afire. "What would you do with a cur like this?"
"Tar and feather him!" cried someone, and a score of voices took it up.
"Tar and feather him! tar and feather him!"
"Ride him out of town on a rail!"
"Aw, that's too easy," yelled another, making a megaphone of his hands so that his voice soared above even that deafening babel. "I've got a good tough rope, fellows, tough enough even for this hog here. What do you say?"
"Lynch him! lynch him!" the cry arose deafeningly and the crowd surged forward once more closing in upon Frank and his quivering, terrified captive.
"Out of the way, Sheldon!"
"Let's get at him!"
"Oh, mein Gott!" wailed the German, sinking on his knees and gazing up at Frank with terror-stricken face. "You will not let dem murder me—like dis—in gold blood—you will not—"
"There's not much cold blood about this," said Frank, with a glint in his eye and another tightening of his fingers. "However, we'll let you live a little while yet. You're not fit to die."