Meanwhile Phil had been conferring with his three chums apart.
“I’ve made up my mind that some of us ought to visit that old tavern again. There’s something up down there or I’m a fool in judging by appearances. How do we know that this Dippy, as that chap calls his mate, may not slip in, having, as he may think, killed his partner, and destroy what I saw when we went in after Billy? We’ve got time now. We can take the car—Worth and me.”
“That sounds bully,” exclaimed Worth. “I’m with you. They kidnaped me; I want to get even.”
The only trouble now was that both Dave and Paul wanted to be “on,” in this adventure; but they yielded when Phil made it plain that part of them must remain at Feeney’s to make sure that the one they had captured was in safe keeping. They all felt that if anything serious were in all this, it was incumbent on all of them to be where things would go smoothly.
“Well then,” remarked Phil in low tones, “when Billy and I are gone, it falls on you, (meaning Dave and Paul) to help Feeney when anything happens.”
Just then the wounded man suddenly sat up in bed, clapped a hand upon his forehead and began to mumble to himself.
“No—good—” he began. “Metal—dies—all there. Then—Dippy—tries to kill—me—”
“Who are you anyway?” suddenly demanded Phil, spurred by a sudden hope that in his delirium the wounded man might let out something as his now disordered brain appeared to connect the present with what he remembered of the past.
“Me?” The man stared vacantly past Phil at the wall. “I—I’m Jimmy—Horr. I’m—I’m—” His voice trailed off into a mumble.
Phil bent forward close as he demanded: