What a sight! There, sitting on something like a stool, with a big cotton umbrella opened over his head, his eyes blinded with something dark, and his hands and feet made secure, was Paul Hastings, the chauffeur of the auto stage.
"Whatever does this means?" asked Cora, hurrying to Hazel, who was now madly snatching the black silk handkerchief from her brother's eyes.
"A prisoner of war," replied Paul rather unsteadily. "Glad you came, girls—there, sis, in my back pocket, you will find a knife. Just cut those carpet rags off my feet and hands."
Cecilia found the pocket knife, and, more quickly than any boy might have done it, she severed the bonds, and Paul stretched out—free.
"Well," he exclaimed, "this is about the limit!"
"Did the boys do it?" asked Cora.
"Boys! Not a bit of it," replied Paul. "It was a regular hold-up. And the mail! I must get that, if they have left it on the road. Did you see the car? Is it all right?"
"It appeared to be," said Cora. "It was the car that brought us to a standstill. It's in the middle of the road."
Paul shook himself as if expecting to find some damage to limb or muscle. Then he turned toward the open path.
"Tell us about it," demanded Cecilia. "Wasn't it a joke?"