“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You heard me the first time,” Bob’s voice was stern.
For a moment the man hesitated as though undecided what to do then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he said as he turned again to his engine:
“You’d better run along now. You can’t bluff me and I’ve wasted all the time on you that I intend to.”
“As you please,” Bob said as he took hold of the handle bars of his wheel. Then, turning to Jack, he added: “Come on, Jack, we’re late now.”
But as he spoke he gave his brother a wink which the latter was quick to understand. King was leaning over the engine of his car as Bob pushed his wheel past and, before he knew what happened, the boy had caught him by the shoulder with his left hand and pulled his head around and, before he had time to defend himself, a well directed blow, delivered to the point of his chin, stretched him on the ground.
“I hated like the dickins to sneak up behind him and hit him like that,” Bob afterward confided to Jack, “but I figured it would be wrong to let him get away, let alone the fact that he had the cell.”
For the moment Bob had forgotten the hunchback in the back of the car, but he was reminded of his existence by a loud shout from Jack just as King fell.
“Look out, he’s got a gun!”
As Jack uttered the cry he sprang for the running board of the car letting his wheel drop in the road.