Tom fished a pair from another pocket, and Bob jammed them into the man’s mouth, silencing at last the flood of unpleasant language. Meanwhile Nelson was kept busy fighting Barry off, for the terrier’s fighting blood was roused, and he was aching to take part in the proceedings. Then they rolled the captive over on to his back and stood up, panting.
“There, my friend,” said Bob, brushing his clothes. “That’ll hold you for a while, I guess. You’ve encountered us about once too often. It’s a pretty good idea to have a look at your host before you accept hospitality.”
The man, the same ugly-faced individual who had been “treed” by Barry in the hotel at Barrington, and subsequently brought to earth by Nelson on the stairs, moved not an eyelash, but if looks could have killed, it would have been all up with Bob.
“Now, what’ll we do with him?” asked Nelson, reaching for his tie, which had worked around under his left ear during the fracas.
“Search him first of all,” answered Bob.
The captive’s eyelids flickered. Dan whistled.
“By Jove!” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that!”
“Do you suppose he’s got anything left?” asked Nelson.
“I don’t know, but I propose to find out,” answered Bob. “Lend a hand, you fellows, and look carefully.”
“Bu-bu-bu-bet you he’s spent the money,” stammered Tom, whose duty at the moment was to refrain Barry from doing murder.