“Not so rough, Jim Dale,” warned Stonington Hunt. “We’ve got them where they can’t escape. Lots of time to get what we want out of them.”
“The pesky young spies,” snorted Jim Dale, “I wonder how much they overheard of what we said.”
“It don’t matter, anyhow,” put in his beardless companion of the afternoon. “They won’t have no chance to tell it.”
“Guess that’s right, Pete Bumpus,” struck in the bearded man. Suddenly Hiram felt a stinging slap across the face. He turned and faced young Freeman Hunt.
“How do you like that, eh?” snarled the youth viciously. “Here is where I pay you out for what you Scout kids did to me when we lived in Hampton.”
He was stepping forward to deliver another blow, when Hiram ducked swiftly, and put into execution a maneuver Rob had shown him. As Freeman, a bigger and heavier lad, rushed forward, Hiram’s long leg and his long left arm shot out simultaneously. The leg engaged Freeman’s ankle, and the Yankee lad’s fist encountered the other’s chin with a sharp crack. Freeman Hunt fell in a heap on the floor. Hiram braced himself for an attack by the whole four. But it didn’t come. Instead, they seemed to think it a good joke.
“That will teach you to keep your temper,” laughed the boy’s father roughly; “plenty of time to punch him and pummel him when we have them tied up.”
“Maybe I won’t do it, too,” promised Freeman, gathering himself up, with a crestfallen look.
Stonington Hunt stepped up to Hiram.
“Tell me the truth, you young brat,” he snarled; “are the police after us?”