Far away, seemingly, there was the bound of a wagon—that must be, he thought, the vehicle in which he had been brought. Frogs were loudly piping down at the foot of the hill. (Must be marshes there, he thought. Marshes—if he had to escape, he’d remember that.)
But what of the men who had brought him? Well, that was what he was wondering. Then he heard noises within the cabin, a light was kindled, and he made out a broken window, near the door. At the door appeared the stocky man who, “coming from General Thorne,” had enticed him away. The fellow was now clad in sweater, cap, and laced leather hoots. He bore a rifle. All his business-like, suave expression had changed to a hard, criminal look.
Behind him was a taller thug with a vicious twist to his mouth, leering at Hike. This taller person said to Hike’s first captor, “Well, Bat, you watch for a couple of hours and then call me, and I’ll get on the job, heh?”
“Yup. All right,” said Bat, as the two men stooped and lifted Hike. They bore him into the cabin, and dropped him roughly on the floor.
“Now I guess you’ll run tetrahedrals—not, young smart Aleck,” snarled the taller man.
“Shut up, Snafflin. Beat it,” ordered Bat.
“A’ right. Keep your collar on. Got the makings?”
Bat scowled at the vicious companion, and silently handed him cigarette papers and tobacco. While the taller tough rolled a cigarette, Hike, watching the lean, quick, yellow-stained fingers, sympathized with his enemy Bat for having to play with tall Mr. Snafflin, who was the sort of chap to make a good pick-pocket, or a better sneak-thief, with those quick, hideous fingers.
“Well,” and Snafflin stretched, scratched his head and yawned, “well, guess I’ll pound my ear. How do you feel, youngster? You ain’t saying much, are you? Sorry—’cause if you said anything I’d smash your jaw, and that’d tickle me, all right, all right.”
Just then, Bat the stocky turned his back. The tall rascal deliberately kicked Hike in the chest, strolled to the door, and disappeared.