"We can protect
ourselves even if we are Boy Scouts. You'll learn that."
"Sure he'll learn it," chimed in Tom. "He'd better not monkey too far
with this crowd. We'll make him eat that meat."
"God idea," declared Jack. "Arnold, please start the coils and fry this
chunk of meat for out friend. He's hungry."
With these words, Jack drew an automatic and displayed it for the
benefit of the visitor. He had no intention of using the weapon, but
felt it might have a salutary effect. In this he was right.
"I can't eat it," cried the boy. "It's poisoned."
"Ah, ha," gloated Jack. "I thought so."
"Oh, please let me go away," begged the lad. "I'll promise not to do
anything against you again. I'll never bother you at all."
"We don't want to do anything rash," Frank suggested. "We won't harm you
if you'll agree not to injure us, but we must know why you came aboard
tonight as you did and what your purpose was."
"Wyckoff made me," groaned the boy covering his face with his hands.
"There," he cried sitting up in bed, "now I've told, he'll kill me sure.
Oh, I'm in trouble now."
"Not so you could notice it," gritted Jack, taking a firmer hold on his
automatic. "If Wyckoff tries any of his dirty tricks around here, we'll
fill him so full of holes he'll leak straw."
"You don't know him," shuddered the boy. "He's a desperate man. He shot
a nigger once just because the fellow disputed Wyckoff about a match.
He's a bad, bad man. I know him."
"And still he had the nerve to tell us on Petit Bois that his hands were
clean," scornfully declared Jack.
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