AN EVIL BAND.
With a terrific squeaking and scampering, the rats fled in all
directions. Tommy was both relieved and dismayed. His position was now
decidedly awkward and painful.
“If this keeps up long, I can see my finish,” he thought. “Bet my hair’s
begun to turn gray now. A few hours more will make it white as the
driven snow.”
After a time the rats began to return. He could see them creeping out
cautiously from the deeper darkness which the flickering light did not
penetrate.
A faint rattling sound made him prick up his ears. His heart throbbed,
for something told him that some one was fitting a key to the lock of
the door. He was right in this supposition, and soon the old door
creaked once more on its hinges.
There was a faint gleam of light, which moved slowly amid the old empty
boxes. Tucker heard the sound of many feet, and finally a grotesque
figure appeared, bearing an iron pan with a long handle. On the surface
of this pan, which seemed half filled with grease, a saturated rag was
burning. It was a huge candle.
Tommy blinked rapidly as his eyes perceived the figure which bore the
flaring light. Apparently it was a huge bear, walking upright on its
hind legs.
A second later Tucker gasped again. Following the bear, a gigantic bird
that resembled an owl strutted into view. Behind the owl came a turbaned
Turk with a curved sword in his hand. The Turk was followed by a painted
and grinning clown. On the heels of the clown trod a crimson-clad,
cloven-hoofed figure which resembled Satan himself. Then came a somber
form in a long black cloak and high-peaked cowl. This last person bore a
huge broad-bladed ax in his hands.
Tucker wondered if he was dreaming. As they gathered around him he saw
that Satan was carrying a tinsmith’s hand furnace, in which a fire
glowed.
“Hoo! hoo!” hooted the owl. “Look! See! He has upset!”
With a fierce growl the bear waved the flaring light in front of
Tucker’s eyes.
“Pick him up,” said the Turk, flourishing his sword.
“Let him lie,” said Satan. “It comes natural for him.”
“Let him lie,” said the one in black, as he flourished the ax. “In this
position I can easily lop off his head.”
“Restrain yourself, executioner,” chuckled the clown. “We must have fun
with him first. He must answer my conundrum. Tell me, thou wretched
creature, why is a hen?”
“Back up,” said the bear, elbowing the clown aside. “He can’t talk.
Don’t you see he’s gagged?”
“Who gagged him?” cried the clown.
“Hoo? hoo?” hooted the owl.
“Take hold, you imps,” commanded Satan. “Set him upright.”
The chair was lifted and planted on its legs.
“Poor fellow!” said Satan, with mock sympathy. “See how frightened he
is! Why, Turk, you could hang your turban on his eyeballs.”
The executioner leaned on the handle of his ax.
“Some one remove the gag,” directed the wearer of the crimson.
“Hoo? hoo?” cried the owl.
“You! you!” commanded Satan, pointing.
The huge bird complied, and Tommy, with great relief, filled his lungs
as the cloth was stripped away.
“Much obliged,” he said, his voice just a bit unsteady. “If you go away
again, please don’t close my trap. The rats are a little too thick for
comfort around here, and I couldn’t even cuss at them.”
“When we leave you next time your tongue will be silenced forever,”
declared the executioner solemnly. “With this good blade I shall sever
your head from your body.”
He flourished the ax as he spoke, swinging it with a sidelong movement
until the edge touched the captive’s neck.
“Boo! that’s pleasant!” shivered Tucker. “So you’re going to decapitate
me, are you?”
“No,” chuckled the clown, “we’re only going to cut your head off.”
“But first,” said the Turk, “we must examine your feet. We have a
peculiar notion that you are the unfortunate possessor of extremely cold
feet.”
“Even so,” nodded Satan. “Remove his shoes and stockings.”
“Why don’t you take a hand, Sate,” piped the clown.
“Yes, get busy,” said the bear. “I’m holding the light. That’s my job.”
Tommy’s ankles had been bound to the legs of a chair, but now they were
set free, and a few moments later his shoes and stockings were stripped
from his feet.
“Indeed his tootsies are very, very cold,” said the owl. “Start up the
fire in your little furnace, Sate.”
Satan turned a thumbscrew which seemed to open a valve of compressed
air, for there was a hissing sound, and the furnace began to glow almost
at once.
“What the dickens does all this tomfoolery mean?” demanded Tucker. “What
are you trying to do with me, anyhow?”
“As Sate hath remarked,” said the Turk, “you’re an easy-going liar. We
are prepared to force the bitter truth from your unwilling lips. A short
time ago some one sold the baseball signals of Umpty-ten to the manager
of a rival team. You, Thomas Jefferson Tucker, were the miserable wretch
who did that.”
“You, Turkey, old boy, are a liar by the clock!” flung back Tommy. “I
had nothing to do with it. I thought that was proven long ago.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Satan. “Your fine friend, Richard Merriwell,
induced a wretched bummer to shoulder the blame of that piece of
treachery, but we happen to know that the bummer was paid to clear you
of stigma. While you have been cleared, suspicion has continued to rest
on another who is innocent.”
“I suppose you mean Bern Wolfe?”
“You have named him,” was the answer. “We know Wolfe had nothing to do
with that dirty business, and we, likewise, know that you did. This very
night we caught you in company with the public stenographer who made a
typewritten copy of those signals. After you escorted her home you were
brought here for treatment.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the clown. “Treatment is an elegant and appropriate
word.”
“We have here,” continued Satan, producing a sheet of paper, “a nice
little typewritten confession of your sins, which we expect you to sign.
I’ve brought a fountain pen for the purpose. In this document you
acknowledge that you are the traitor who gave the signals to Ben
Newhouse of the Hudson team. Would you like to read it?”
“I don’t care to waste my time,” said Tucker. “If you think you’re going
to get my autograph hitched onto the bottom of that document, you’re a
bigger fool than I ever took the devil to be.”
“Cold feet,” snickered the clown.
“But we have the facilities for warming them,” said Satan. “Turk, kindly
move the furnace a little nearer. We’ll give his tootsies a nice
comfortable baking. By the time his toes are well done and crisp he may
change his mind and decide to append his signature to this little
document.”