"There's never any telling what you'll do," answered Matt. "You're full of tricks, Brady; not only that, but you're an escaped convict. You're playing some kind of a game, but you're not going to catch us, I can tell you that."
Brady fell silent. When Carl got back with the rope he allowed himself to be tied.
"Now," said he, as he lay helpless on the ground, "if you're satisfied, we can talk."
Considering the temper he had, he showed a most remarkable command of himself.
"I haven't any objections to talking with you," returned Matt, "but nothing you can say is going to keep us from handing you over to the police. Carl," and here he turned to his Dutch chum, "you go to the other side of the trees and keep a sharp watch for some of the rest of the gang. And you, Dick," he added to Ferral, "keep your eyes skinned on this side. It won't do to let Pete or Whipple sneak up on us while Brady is holding our attention."
"Ve fool him vonce oof he dries dot," said Carl, moving away to the position assigned him.
"Right-o," agreed Ferral. "We know too much about Brady to let him pull the wool over our eyes."
As Brady lay bound, Matt went through his pockets, looking for a weapon. His search was unsuccessful. Brady laughed harshly as the lad drew away with empty hands.
"You'll not find any shooting irons about me, King," said he. "Why, I haven't so much as a pocket knife in my clothes. That's more proof that I didn't come here with any hostile intentions against you and your friends."
"Where did you get that uniform?" asked Matt sternly.