“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll soon see,” was the reply.
“If I ever find out who you are, I’ll pay you back well for this,” went on Bill.
“You’re welcome to—if you find out,” was the significant answer.
“I know you!” suddenly exclaimed the captive. “You’re fellows from Sandrim, trying to get even for us boys taking your boats,” went on Bill, for, not long before that, the lads from Westfield had carried a lot of boats from their rival school, and deposited the craft in the middle of their own campus. “You’re from Sandrim,” declared Bill positively.
A laugh was his only answer. The auto kept up the speed, and presently turned from the main road, into a sort of lane.
“Is this the place?” asked the lad who was in the tonneau with Bill.
“A little farther,” answered the one at the wheel. “Look out he doesn’t slip away from you.”
“Oh, I’ve got him,” was the reply, and a hand took a firmer grip of Bill’s shoulder.
The car came to a sudden stop. A door of a building which the pitcher could see was a sort of shack, or hut, was opened, and a shaft of light came out.