He hurried up the lane, and I followed in a panicky frame of mind. The track wound along a hillside, between a high bank and a forest of birch trees. I think the distance can’t have been more than a quarter of a mile. Anyway, in a very few minutes the road made a sharp twist to the right and we found ourselves looking down into the quarry, over a sheer rocky drop of a hundred feet at least. Below, drawn over to one side of the wall of rock, stood Parnassus. Peg was between the shafts. Bock was nowhere to be seen. Sitting by the van were three disreputable looking men. The smoke of a cooking fire rose into the air; evidently they were making free with my little larder.
“Keep back,” said the Professor softly. “Don’t let them see us.” He flattened himself in the grass and crawled to the edge of the cliff. I did the same, and we lay there, invisible from below, but quite able to see everything in the quarry. The three tramps were evidently enjoying an excellent breakfast.
“This place is a regular hangout for these fellows,” Mifflin whispered. “I’ve seen hoboes about here every year. They go into winter quarters about the end of October, usually. There’s an old blasted out section of this quarry that makes a sheltered dormitory for them, and as the place isn’t worked any more they’re not disturbed here so long as they don’t make mischief in the neighbourhood. We’ll give them …”
“Hands up!” said a rough voice behind us. I looked round. There was a fat, red faced villainous looking creature covering us with a shiny revolver. It was an awkward situation. Both the Professor and I were lying full length on the ground. We were quite helpless.
“Get up!” said the tramp in a husky, nasty voice. “I guess youse thought we wasn’t covering our trail? Well, we’ll have to tie you up, I reckon, while we get away with this Crystal Pallis of yourn.”
I scrambled to my feet, but to my surprise the Professor continued to lie at full length.
“Get up, deacon!” said the tramp again. “Get up on them graceful limbs, if you please.”
I guess he thought himself safe from attack by a woman. At any rate, he bent over as if to grab Mifflin by the neck. I saw my chance and jumped on him from behind. I am heavy, as I have said, and he sprawled on the ground. My doubts as to the pistol being loaded were promptly dissolved, for it went off like a cannon. Nobody was in front of it, however, and Mifflin was on his feet like a flash. He had the ruffian by the throat and kicked the weapon out of his hand. I ran to seize it.
“You son of Satan!” said the valiant Redbeard. “Thought you could bully us, did you? Miss McGill, you were as quick as Joan of Arc. Hand me the pistol, please.”
I gave it to him, and he shoved it under the hobo’s nose.
“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.
The rascals down below seemed debating what to do. I don’t know whether they were armed or not; but probably they imagined that there were more than two of us. At all events, by the time Mifflin came back with a stout birch staff they were hustling out of the quarry on the lower side. The Professor swore, and looked as if he would gladly give chase, but he refrained.
“Here, you,” he said in crisp tones to the tramp, “march on ahead of us, down to the quarry.”
The fat ruffian shambled awkwardly down the trail. We had to make quite a detour to get into the quarry, and by the time we reached there the other three tramps had got clean away. I was not sorry, to tell the truth. I thought the Professor had had enough scrapping for one twenty four hours.
Peg whinneyed loudly as she saw us coming, but Bock was not in sight.
“What have you done with the dog, you swine?” said Mifflin. “If you’ve hurt him I’ll make you pay with your own hide.”
Our prisoner was completely cowed. “No, boss, we ain’t hurt the dog,” he fawned. “We tied him up so he couldn’t bark, that’s all. He’s in the bus.” And sure enough, by this time we could hear smothered yelping and whining from Parnassus.
I hurried to open the door, and there was Bock, his jaws tied
