“How about wearing my own?” Bill was fast losing his temper. Only the rifle which Diego held pointed in his direction prevented him from sending a right hand jab to the point of the thug’s chin and taking his chance with the others in the room beyond.
“Nuttin’ doin’, bo—” snarled Diego. “Dem’s de boss’s orders. Make it snappy. We gotta get out o’ here right away an’ I want to pin de jewelry on yer.”
“Where are we going?”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere—but you are—” He grinned evilly at the lad—“youse is goin’ ter be took fer a ride.”
[CHAPTER IV—THE INVITATION]
Diego gave vent to a raucous laugh after making this announcement. He walked across the room, leaned his rifle against the table, and picking up the handcuffs inspected them critically. His prisoner was unarmed and too far away to offer an assault before he could snatch up his gun again. He did not fear Bill physically. But many people misjudged that slender body with the broad shoulders. The young midshipman was not yet seventeen; nevertheless he was star right end on the Navy team and as strong as a steel bridge. Now he saw his chance and took it.
Bending down as though to untie the pair of rubber soled sneakers he wore, Bill suddenly half straightened and his lithe form shot through the air. Before Diego could drop the handcuffs, one hundred and sixty pounds of bone and muscle struck him just above the knees and he crashed over backward beneath a perfect tackle. The unexpected jar and shock half-stunned him and before he could gather his faculties, Bill’s fist, backed by the venom of a sorely tried temper smashed him behind his left ear. All lights went out for Diego, gangster and gunman, right there.
Bill scrambled to his feet, ran to the open door and peered out. The corridor was empty. He closed and bolted the door and after a moment’s thought, he approached the unconscious gangster.
Five minutes later, a young man clad in cotton undershirt, ragged cotton trousers and rubber soled sneakers stepped through an open window on to the wide veranda which ran along the side of the barracks. On the young man’s head was a floppy broadbrimmed hat of straw. He carried a rifle. The owner of these articles lay on the floor behind the window, quite oblivious. When he came to again, he would find his wrists manacled behind his back, his right leg chained to the table, and a gag in his mouth. As Bill Bolton walked swiftly along the veranda, he conjured up the pleasing picture of Diego’s awakening, and grinned.
With the hat’s brim pulled well down and acting as a partial screen to his features, he ran down the broad wooden steps and out to the road. Not a soul was in sight. Then suddenly his heart missed a beat.