Willie Jones spluttered with rage, and while he was spluttering Janet murmured tersely:
"Now's our time! When I count three, we'll go for him. I'll go for his arms; Rosie, you grab his legs and feet; and Margery can make for his pocket. Now! One—two—three!"
Willie Jones put up a gallant fight, but what, pray, are two stout arms against six just as stout? What, say, avails two strong legs that are pressed, hugged, jammed together by a human snake who has twisted herself about them, and is sitting on their helpless feet?
The violence of the contest was over in a moment, and Janet was urging:
"Quick, Margery, quick! His pocket!"
But when you're not trained to the business, it's fearfully hard to slip your hand deftly into some one else's pocket. Margery bungled, and Janet, impatient at her slowness, loosened slightly her own hold. On the instant, Willie Jones wrenched one arm free, dived into his pocket, and before his captors knew what he was about had pulled up the nickel and popped it into his mouth.
"You villain!" cried Janet McFadden, unspeakably incensed at this fresh outrage. "You spit that nickel right out! Do you hear me?"
Willie Jones made no answer. His mouth was too tightly shut to answer.
Janet would have shaken him soundly, but Margery stopped her.
"Be careful, Janet, be careful! If he was to swallow it I never would get it back!"