“You won’t take off your wooden leg, Bill?” asked Hiram.
“Not for anybody—not until I go to bed!” declared the other vigorously.
“Well, then, it’s time you went to bed!” cried Bob, as he swung open the door and walked out into the main room of the log cabin, closely followed by Ned and Harry.
“Wha—what—what’s the meaning of this?” cried Jolly Bill, when he could get his breath. “What—why, it’s my friend Bob!” he cried, with seeming pleasure as he arose and stumped forward with extended hands. “My old friend Bob. Shake with Jolly Bill!”
“We’ll shake your leg—that’s all we’ll shake!” cried Ned, taking his cue from what Bob had said.
“And you might as well go to bed now,” added Harry.
Jolly Bill was standing near a couch, and suddenly, with a gentle push, Harry sent him backward so that he fell, full length on this improvised bed.
So sudden was the push, gentle as it was, that it took away the breath of Jolly Bill. He gasped and spluttered on the couch, trying in vain to raise his head, for Ned was holding him down. And as a horse cannot rise if you hold his head down, so, neither, can a man, and Bill was in just this situation.
“Let me up, you young rascals! Let me up! I’ll have the law on you for this! I’ll call the police! What do you mean? Hiram, what’s the game? You asked me here to talk about the treasure—you said you might divide it, and now—stop! stop!” yelled Jolly Bill.
And well might he yell “stop!” for he felt many hands fumbling at his wooden leg. Hands were unbuckling the straps that held the wooden limbs to his stump. And Hiram’s hands were among these.