"He's not so much of a fool as you thought, Proctor!" growled Jurgens. "He was in the window, listening."
"Much good it'll do him!" grunted Bangs. "We've got the chest, and what he discovered won't do him any good."
"You bet it won't! Get a rope."
Bangs secured a rope from somewhere in the room and Carl was expeditiously lashed by the hands and feet.
"Himmelblitzen!" ground out Carl. "You vas a humpug, Pangs! You say you vas somet'ing, und you peen somet'ing else. Py chincher, oof I hat der use oof my handts I vould make you t'ink you vas hit mit some cyclones."
"Oh, come," laughed Bangs, "don't be so fierce. We've got you, and we've got the chest, and that pal of yours is away off on Stuyvesant Dock and hasn't the least notion where you are. Sing small, my fat kiskidee; it won't do you any good to take on."
"Vait, py chinks!" flamed Carl; "schust vait ondil Modor Matt findts oudt vat iss going on. Den, I bed you, someding vill habben. I don'd know nodding, und Tick he don'd know nodding eider; aber Matt—vell, dere iss a feller vat knows more as you. Look oudt for him, dot's all."
"Where is Motor Matt?" demanded Jurgens.
"Ask me," said Carl.
"That's what I'm doing."