A muttered curse came from Sharkey’s lips—but this was an aside. For Dick he had an insinuating smile.
“You might get these blamed handcuffs off all right, Willoughby. Look at that big boulder there. If I set my hands across it, you might hammer through the chain. Or if you have a pistol, that might do the trick.”
“No, I’ve got no pistol,” Dick replied.
He did not notice the gleam of satisfaction in Sharkey’s eyes—the wolfish smile at the corners of his wolf-like teeth. At the moment he was looking around for a convenient stone that might serve as a hammer.
“But I think I might break that chain all right with this,” he went on, as he stooped and picked up a heavy, sharp-edged fragment of granite from the rock-strewn ground. “Come along, then. Set your wrists just here. At least, we can try.”
The trial succeeded—the slender steel strain stretched across the boulder soon yielded to the succession of battering blows.
Sharkey flung his great big brawny arms aloft. He was still wearing the bracelets, but his hands were free.
“Feels better, don’t it?” said Dick, with a sympathetic smile.
“A damned sight better,” roared the sleuth, as he turned quickly round. “Now, young man, you are my prisoner. I arrest you for jail-breaking. There’s my star. I don’t say hands up, for I know you haven’t a gun.”
As he spoke, Sharkey opened his coat so that the official badge might be displayed.