In spite of all his terror, Jimmie's heart leaped with exultation. Perkins was lying! He hadn't found out a thing! He was just trying to bluff his prisoner, and to make his superior officer think he was a real “sleuth”. He was doing what the police everywhere do—trying to obtain by brutality what they cannot obtain by skill and intelligence.
“Now, you're goin' to tell,” continued the man. “You may think you can hold out, but you'll find it's no go. I'll tear you limb from limb if you make me—I'll do just whatever I have to do to make you come through. You get me?”
Jimmie nodded his head in a sort of spasm, but his effort to make a sound resulted only in a gulp in his throat.
“You'll only make yourself a lot of pain if you delay, so you'd better be sensible. Now—who are they?”
“They ain't anybody. They—”
“So that's it? Well, we'll see.” And the sergeant swung Jimmie about, so as to be at his back. “Hold him,” he said to the two men, and they grasped the prisoner's shoulders; the sergeant grasped his two wrists, which were handcuffed together, and began to force them up Jimmie's back.
“Ow!” cried Jimmie. “Stop! Stop!”
“Will you tell?” said the sergeant.
“Stop!” cried Jimmie, wildly; and as the other pushed harder, he began to scream. “You'll break my arm! The one that was wounded.”
“Wounded?” said the sergeant.