“Hold on! Stop him, will you, Phil?” cried Mort angrily. But Dick had hastened his steps and was already out of sight.
Still Winthrop said never a word. His face was white, and the two guards thought he was too frightened to speak.
“Strip off his coat and vest,” commanded Mort, brandishing the whip. Phil obeyed his leader like a lamb, untying the captive’s hands cautiously, and, with Mort’s aid, fastening them again more securely than ever.
“Now, then, here’s one for interfering between me and the girl!”
Down came the leather lash across the thinly clad shoulders.
“One more for the lick you gave me between the eyes!”
Again the stinging, burning blow. Still Winthrop did not cry out.
“You want some more, do you?” cried Mort, enraged at his victim’s silence.
The lash was raised again. As Mort raised and swung it, to give the full force of the blow, he stepped backward. The embankment, long ago undermined by the river, crumbled under the bully’s feet; with a shriek of terror he toppled over, and disappeared beneath the black eddies of the pool. Winthrop could not see what had happened, for his back, now smarting as if living coals were bound to it, was toward the bank. From the sound of the falling earth, the cry of his tormentor, and the loud splash that followed, he guessed what had occurred.