“It was a close call,” replied Raikes. “The ball plowed a furrow right across my forehead.”
“You need rest,” said Bogle. “Sleep will fix you up better than medicine.”
“Yes; I reckon so,” admitted Raikes. “But what are you going to do with the lad? No more violence, Joe—for my sake. There are other ways to break him in.”
“It shall be as you say,” replied Bogle, “though I hate most infernally to lose the time. Still, you may not be able to travel for a day or two.”
He hesitated a moment, and thoughtfully knitted his brows. Then he took a piece of rope from his pocket, and cut it in two.
Dexterously tripping Brick to the floor, he bound his ankles and wrists. Then he dragged him across the room, and threw open the door of a small, low closet that was level with the floor.
“Do you see that?” he exclaimed. “It’s not a very snug place, but it’s where you’ll stay until you consent to write those letters. And nothing to eat or drink, remember. If you choose to starve to death, it’s your own lookout.”
A moment later Brick was in the closet, and the door was jammed tightly shut.
The closet was of such small dimensions that Brick could not stretch his body out full length, nor could he sit upright. The floor was hard, and through the log-wall next to the open air came a cold and cutting wind.
His limbs were bound very tightly, and soon he suffered from cramp and shooting pains. But Brick had an obstinate nature, and the thought of yielding was extremely bitter.