The next move was to free the policeman, who, though carrying a lot of surplus flesh, would apparently make a fair bid as a full hand in a fight.
Relieved of the gag, what the officer had to say about his late captors was red-hot Russian. When Henri had severed, with his pocket-knife, the last strand of the confining cord, the big policeman regained his feet with astonishing alacrity for such a heavyweight. He speedily worked the stiffness out of his joints by swinging his arms about like a windmill and vigorously stamping up and down the few feet of floor space.
Shrewdly surmising that his rescuers were not conversant with the native tongue, he asked in French: “How many of them out there?”
The door was rattling ominously, and one of the hinges gave way with a scattering of screw fastenings.
“One,” answered Henri, “but he’s a corker—the fellow with the hair mattress around his ears.”
“Oh, oh,” exclaimed the policeman, “I gave him a rap with my stick before they downed me. He’s of strange breed, not like the rest.”
The thought came to both Billy and Henri that Hamar was here to exact blood atonement for the mentioned blow.
The policeman wrenched a heavy oak brace from one of the benches, tested its heft by a long arm swing over his head, and grimly remarked:
“This will drop him if he comes through.”
The door gave way with a crash, the piled up benches toppling with the impact, and on top of the whole mass the tiger man with dagger drawn.