"Are you mad, Fan? The boy has us in his power unless he is done up. Strike him and get it over with, do you hear me!"
"I can't," returned the woman, almost pathetically. "He reminds me of——"
"Blast your squeamishness! You will ruin us."
"We must adopt other means to silence him till we are safe," she said.
She looked feverishly about the room. Her eyes rested on a small bottle on the mantel. Flinging the slungshot down, she bounded over and seized it. Tearing a lace handkerchief from her bosom, she dashed some of the contents of the bottle on it. In the meantime the struggle between Dick and the man was renewed. Patterson succeeded in pulling the boy over on the rug again. As he held him there, the woman slipped over, threw her weight on Dick's side and pressed the handkerchief over his face. Dick struggled desperately, for he knew he was being drugged, but he had not the ghost of a show.
"It is better this way, Jim," she said. "Oh, why did he come here? Why did he come?"
"What's the matter with you?" growled Patterson, allowing matters to take their course. "What interest have you in that boy?"
"I don't know, indeed I don't; but he is a nice boy, and he looks so like my brother!" she faltered.
"Oh, hang your brother! What has your brother got to do with him?"
As Dick's struggles ceased the woman lifted the handkerchief. The boy was unconscious.