“I no understand!” cried Thunderbolt.
“Let us out,” howled Tom, “or you’ll get in the worst trouble of your life!”
A tremendous onslaught was made on the door. Every ounce of their united strength was exerted in an effort to force it open. But the only result was to make themselves hot, tired and perspiring.
“Yes; push on it hard!” yelled a derisive voice. “‘Walk inter my parler,’ says the spider to the fly. Thought yerselves smart, didn’t yer? Well, all I kin say is that ye’re goin’ ter smart for it.”
“Come now, this has gone far enough,” shouted Dick Travers. “We don’t mind a little joke——”
“A joke, is it?” Hank Styles’ voice, muffled by the partition, came again. “Thought I couldn’t see through yer little trick, didn’t yer? Sit there an’ think it over. It’s a nice, comfor’ble room with stools an’ benches. An’ when you git tired o’ sittin’ look out o’ the winder at that there beautiful view.”
Tom Clifton immediately attacked the door with a fury that, if not emulated by the others, at least caused them to join in another supreme effort to break the lock.
Puny indeed was the lads’ force against the mighty strength and solidity of the great door. Their efforts were as fruitless as those of a bird fluttering and beating its wings against the bars of its cage.
“Oh, what a beautiful mess!” cried Larry, despairingly. “Now what are we going to do?”
“Not blubber—for one thing!” cried Tom, so exasperated that he could scarcely speak. “Hank Styles is going to pay for this. I knew there was something wrong the moment he opened his mouth.”