"Take away that—er—nasty gun, little boy," pleaded his captive plaintively.
"You—ah—don't understand it. It—er—might go off."
William was not a boy to indulge in half measures. He meant to carry the matter off with a high hand.
"I'll shoot you dead," he said dramatically, "if you don't do jus' what I tell you."
Mr. Percival Jones wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"Where did you get that rifle, little boy?" he asked in a voice he strove to make playful. "Is it—ah—is it loaded? It's—ah—unwise, little boy. Most unwise. Er—give it to me to—er—take care of. It—er—might go off, you know."
William moved the muzzle of his weapon, and Mr. Percival Jones shuddered from head to foot. William was a brave boy, but he had experienced a moment of cold terror when first he had approached his captive. The first note of the quavering high-pitched voice had, however, reassured him. He instantly knew himself to be the better man. His captive's obvious terror of his pop-gun almost persuaded him that he held in his hand some formidable death-dealing instrument. As a matter of fact Mr. Percival Jones was temperamentally an abject coward.
"You walk up to the seats," commanded William. "I've took you prisoner for smugglin' an'—an'—jus' walk up to the seats."
Mr. Percival Jones obeyed with alacrity.
"Don't—er—press anything, little boy," he pleaded as he went. "It—ah—might go off by accident. You might do—ah—untold damage."