At the same time Conley had thrown open the lid of the hamper, plainly disclosing the cramped detective to the view of all.
In an instant both ruffians had him by the throat and wrists.
“Hold on!” gasped Patsy, struggling to rise out of his cramped position, and at once assuming to be the injured, rather than the offender.
“Come out here!”
“Sure, I’ll come out,” whined Patsy, as he was yanked out upon the ground, yet still in the clutches of both men. “Say, this ain’t no way to use a fellow. Let go me throat, will you? I ain’t going to eat nobody up. Holy smoke! but I’m glad you drove that dog off. I thought I was a dead one, for sure.”
“You’ll be a dead one, all right, young fellow, unless you stand up and give an account of yourself,” Badger fiercely cried. “Hang onto his arms, there, Conley, in case he means mischief. Hand me that strip of rope, Vic, and I’ll make him fast in a jiffy. Look lively, I say!”
While this exchange of conversation was in progress, Patsy had been jerked rudely to his feet, only to find for several moments that he could hardly stand erect, so strained and cramped were his muscles.
Conley, meantime, had twisted the captive’s arms back of him, and was holding them there with the grip of a vise.
Badger had released Patsy’s throat, however, and, with the piece of rope Vic Clayton had hurriedly brought him, he quickly secured the detective’s arms and wrists behind him.
“Now, you give an account of yourself,” he fiercely commanded, shaking his clenched hand under Patsy’s nose.