And then the struggle became a question of three to one.
Vernet fought valiantly, but he lay at last captive under the combined clutch of Papa and Franz, and menaced by the knife which Mamma, having snatched it from the hand of her hopeful son, held above his head.
Instinctively the two elder outlaws obeyed the few words of command that fell from the lips of their returned Prodigal; and in spite of his splendid resistance, Van Vernet was bound hand and foot, a prisoner in the power of the Francoises.
His clothing was torn and disarranged; his wig was all awry; and large patches of his sable complexion had transferred themselves from his countenance to the hands and garments of his captors.
“No dark lantern,” indeed. The natural white shone in spots through its ebony coating, and three people less fiercely in earnest than the Francoises would have gone wild with merriment, so ludicrous was the plight of the hapless detective.
“Now then,” began Franz, in a low gutteral that caused Mamma to start, and Papa to favor him with a stare of surprise; “now then, no tricks, my cornered cop. You may talk, but—” and he glanced significantly from the knife in Mamma’s hand to the pistol now in his own,—“be careful about raising yer voice; you’ve got pals in the street, maybe. You may pipe to them, but,—” with a click of the pistol,—“ye’re a dead man before they can lift a hoof!”
Vernet’s eyes blazed with wrath, but he maintained a scornful silence.
“In another moment, the two were upon the floor, Franz Francoise uppermost!”—[page 210].