"Ve got it from der feller vat heluped rop you."
It was hardly a time for explanations, but Carl made that one mechanically—for his thoughts were elsewhere.
Tomlinson lifted the gun, training it on the occupants of the car behind. Hank saw the move but never flinched.
"I wouldn't do that," he shouted. "We don't want to kill you, Tomlinson. That isn't part of the game. We want those pearls, and we're not going to be euchered out of them after all this fuss."
Then Spangler, from the rumble, leaned forward over the front seat of the runabout. He had picked up his own weapon from the place where Matt had dropped it, or else he had taken a second six-shooter from Hank's pocket. He leveled the gun at Tomlinson.
"Pull that trigger an' I'll fill ye fuller o' holes than a pepper-box!" he cried.
Gregory, reaching over from the front, caught Tomlinson's arm and jerked it down.
"You're mad, Mr. Tomlinson!" said he. "Don't take such a risk."
"What's our pace?" demanded Tomlinson, his iron-gray hair snapping about his face with the speed of their flight.
"Fifty-nine!"