"Now" he said, "take off that rag around your neck."
The rag was an old red handkerchief, inconceivably soiled.
The tramp removed it, grumbling and whining. Mifflin gave me
the pistol to hold while he tied our prisoner's wrists
together. In the meantime we heard a shout from the quarry.
The three vagabonds were gazing up in great excitement.
"You tell those fashion plates down there," said Mifflin, as
he knotted the tramp's hands together, "that if they make any
fight I'll shoot them like crows." His voice was cold and
savage and he seemed quite master of the situation, but I must
confess I wondered how we could handle four of them.
The greasy ruffian shouted down to his pals in the quarry, but
I did not hear what he said, as just then the Professor asked
me to keep our captive covered while he got a stick. I stood
with the pistol pointed at his head while Mifflin ran back
into the birchwood to cut a cudgel.
The tramp's face became the colour of the under side of a
fried egg as he looked into the muzzle of his own gun.
"Say, lady," he pleaded, "that gun goes off awful easy, point
her somewhere else or you'll croak me by mistake."
I thought a good scare wouldn't do him any harm and kept the
barrel steadily on him.
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