"Nope!" answered Eph, sturdily. "Not unless you want exercise."
As Somers spoke he landed another blow, this against the "wind" at Millard's belt-line. In the same instant Jack Benson managed to knot his hands in the fellow's coat lapels, and to press the backs of his hands against the wretch's throat.
"I sur—ug-g-gh!—er—render," gurgled the long-legged one, weakly.
"You'd better, unless you want to discover that we haven't yet started in with rough handling," retorted Eph valiantly.
Young Benson eased his hold on Millard's wind-pipe. Yet all three of the submarine boys watched their prisoner, cat-like, for any new outbreak.
"Now, roll over on your face, if you want us to believe you're going to be good," ordered Jack.
Though he swore, under his breath, Millard obeyed. Then something flashed in the night—handcuffs that Jack had brought away from his meeting with Lieutenant Ridder at the hotel.
Click! The steel band snapped into place around Millard's right wrist.
"Hold on—not that!" protested the prisoner, hoarsely.
"Yes; even that!" mocked Eph, picking up a fragment of rock. "And keep quiet, unless you want me to batter your head in!"