Poor Joe's senses had all but left him. He was an inert mass, but he could hear faintly, and he recognized the voice of Shalleg.
He tried to rouse himself, but it was as though he were in a heavy sleep, or stupor. He felt himself being lifted into a cab. The door slammed shut, and then he was rattled away over the cobbles.
"I wonder what they're going to do with me?" Joe thought. He had enough of his brain in working order to do that. Once more he tried to struggle.
"Better tie him up," suggested a voice he now recognized as that of the fellow who had twisted his arm on the street car.
"Yes, I guess we had," agreed Shalleg. "And then to the Delaware with him!"
Joe was too weak, and too much under the influence of the drug, to care greatly what they did with him—that is, in a sense, though a feeling of terror took possession of him at the words.
"The river!" gasped Wessel. "I thought you said there'd be no violence, Shalleg."
"And there won't!" promised the leader of the conspirators.
"But you said to tie him, and then to the river with him."
"You don't s'pose I'm going to chuck him in; do you?" was the angry question.