“I’ll be good, kind Mr. Highwayman!”
There was a stifled laugh at this.
“Takes it well,” remarked one of his captors in a whisper.
“Yes—but wait,” was the significant comment. “You take off some of the wrappings. Be careful he doesn’t spot you.”
Bill was soon more comfortable, as far as breathing was concerned, but his limbs were still cramped from the cords that bound them, and he was in a most uncomfortable position. He seemed to be reclining in the tonneau of the car, and some one was in the seat with him. He tried his best to make out the features, but it was dark, and the half masks which his captors wore prevented recognition.
Nor did the voices afford any clew, for when those in the auto spoke it was either in half whispers or in mumbled words so that the tones were not clear. At first Bill thought it was some of the students from Westfield who were playing a joke on him, but later he changed this opinion. He had an idea that it was either Mersfeld, North or some of their crowd, but the conversation among his captors soon disclosed that they were not these lads.
“I wonder what they want of me, anyhow,” mused Bill. “It was foolish to pay any attention to that note. I wish I had looked more carefully at the writing.”
Yet, as he tried to recall the characters he was sure he had never seen the hand before.
“It’s a joke, though, sure,” decided the pitcher. “And it’s some young fellows who have me in tow. Guess I’ll talk and see if they’ll answer.”
He squirmed into an easier position, and fired this question at those in the auto: