The last was added when the two ruffians appeared in the entrance to the stall, both halting to glare down at the prostrate detective.
Nick Carter gazed up at them, pale and bruised, but his eyes had lost none of their confidence and severe austerity.
“It’s no fault of yours, Mauler, that I am still in the land of the living,” he sternly answered.
“You bet it ain’t,” growled Sol, with expressive nods. “You’d have been done brown and planted deep, barring a kick came from one we have to hear to. He ain’t taking chances of a rope. The coin is all he’s out for.”
“We’ve got it, too,” put in Zeke, with a villainous leer. “We got it in spite of you.”
“Make sure you hang onto it, then,” Nick coldly advised.
“You can bet your boots on that. We’ll soon have it planted where no infernal New York dick will find it.”
“Don’t be so sure of it. You may slip a cog.”
“No slips for us,” said Sol confidently. “You ought to know that, Carter.”
“I’m not telling all I know.”