Bill dropped his suitcase and defiantly thrust his hands into the pockets of his breeches.
“We’re not armed,” he said steadily, and ignoring the man’s angry growl, turned to his father. “If this is a sample of the famous hospitality you were talking about, Dad, a little of it is plenty!”
“Search ’em and search ’em good, Diego!” shouted the leader. “If they make a move ter pull a rod, I’ll drill ’em.”
“But, I say—— Hold on!” Mr. Bolton exclaimed indignantly as Diego relieved him of his watch and wallet.
“Hold up, you mean,” remarked Bill grimly. “A sweet gang of robbers we’ve fallen into if the rest of them on this key are anything like these two thugs.”
“Shut yer mouth, or it’ll be the worse fer youse!” snapped the highwayman. “Mebbe yer get dese tings back when yer goes up ter de big house, an’ mebbe yer don’t. Dat’s none o’ my business. It’s up ter de boss.”
“I’ll bet he’s a gentleman of the old school,” mocked Bill. “Tell me, Bozo, what do they call this place? Who is the hospitable owner?”
“Ain’t none o’ yer business,” snarled the man. “Gimme more o’ yer lip, an’ I’ll give yer de butt of dis rifle between de eyes. Pick up dem bags and march. Straight down de road—dat’s de way.”
Forced to obey, the Boltons took up their suitcases again and continued along the dusty highway, but this time accompanied by an armed rear guard.
“We’re arriving in style, anyway, with an armed guard,” Bill muttered to his father. “What sort of a dump do you suppose we’ve crashed into?”