Nick was still unconscious, and did not recover his wits until the tying operation had been completed.
When he opened his eyes, Clancy was going through his pockets.
“Guns, and handcuffs, and a pocket bull’s-eye,” muttered Clancy, producing the articles one by one and handing them over the back of the front seat to Spark and Cricket. “A nice equipment for a sneak thief to tote around with him. He’s Nick Carter’s assistant, all right.”
“He has two men assistants,” spoke up Spark—“Chick and Patsy.”
“I have heard of them,” said Clancy, with an oath. “Here, you!” he added, grabbing Nick by the shoulders and giving him a rough shake; “what sort of a deal were you trying to ring in on us?”
“Who hit me?” demanded Nick.
“I did,” asserted Spark. “What did you try to wreck the auto for?”
“I couldn’t manage it.”
“Bah!” snorted Clancy. “You’re one of Nick Carter’s men, we know that, and right here is where our trails divide. I’m from Montana, I am, and Ramsay, a man Nick Carter hounded into the penitentiary, was a pal of mine.
“I swore, when Ramsay got sent over the road, the other day, that I’d never rest until I had played even with Carter on Ramsay’s account.