“I can’t get his hand free––”
“Wait! I try!” He pulled a big, horn-handled clasp-knife from his pocket and deliberately opened the eight-inch blade.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, seizing his wrist. “Don’t do that!”
The man with the golden beard hesitated, then shrugged, pocketed his knife, and seized Neeland’s rigidly clenched hand.
“You are right. It makes too much muss!” tugging savagely at the clenched and unconscious hand. “Sacreminton! What for a death-grip is this Kerls? If I cut his hand off so iss there blood and gossip right away already. No—too much muss. Wait! I try another way––”
Neeland groaned.
“Oh, don’t! Don’t!” faltered the girl. “You’re breaking his wrist––”
“Ugh!” grunted her companion; “I try; I can it not accomplish. See once if the box opens!”
“It is locked.”
“Search this pig-dog for the key!”