"Stop a moment, Mr. Brookhouse; you are my prisoner, sir. Gerry, the handcuffs."
The man at the horse's head comes swiftly to my assistance, Arch Brookhouse is drawn from his buggy, and his hands secured behind him by fetters of steel. Not a captive to be proud of; his teeth chatter, he shivers as with an ague.
"Wh—who are you?" he gasps. "Wh—what do you want?"
"I'm a city sprig," I answer, maliciously, "and I'm an easy fish to catch. But not so easy as you, my gay Lothario. By-and-by you may decide, if you will, whether I possess most money or brains; now I have more important business on hand."
Just then comes a long, low whistle.
"Gerry," I say, "that is Long. Go down to him and see if he needs help."
Gerry is off in an instant, and then my prisoner rallies his cowardly faculties, and begins to bluster.
"What does this assault mean? I demand an explanation, sir!"
"But I am not in the mood to give it," I retort. "You are my prisoner, and likely to remain so, unless you are stolen from me by Judge Lynch, which is not improbable."