True to Himself | Page 7

carriage?"
"They'll be O. K."
There seemed to be no help for it, so I walked along with them. Had there been the slightest chance offered to escape I would have taken it, but warned by experience, all six kept close watch over me.
Away we went through the woods that lined the east side of the road. It was bad walking, and with both my hands behind me I was several times in danger of stumbling. Indeed, once I did go down, but the firm grasp of my captors saved me from injury.
Presently we came to a long clearing, where it had once been the intention of some capitalists to build a railroad. But the matter had drifted into litigation, and nothing was done but to build a tool house and cut away the trees and brush.
The building had often been the resort of tramps, and was in a dilapidated condition. It was probably fifteen feet square, having a door at one end and a window at the other. The roof was flat and full of holes, but otherwise the building was fairly strong.
"Here we are, fellows," said Duncan, as we stopped in front of the door. "Just let go of him."
The others did as he requested. But they formed a small circle around me that I might not escape.
"Now that I have got you in a place free from interruption I intend to square up accounts with you," continued the president of the Models. "You hit me a foul blow this morning."
"You brought it on yourself, Duncan," I replied, as coolly as I could, though I was keenly interested.
"Stop! How many times must I tell you not to call me by my first name."
"Well, then, Woodward, if that suits you better."
"Mr. Woodward, if you please."
"Oh, come, Dunc, hurry up," interrupted Moran. "We don't want to stay here all day."
"I'm only teaching this fellow a lesson in politeness."
"All right; only cut it short."
"See here, Moran, who's the president of this club?"
"You are."
"Well, then, I'll take my own time," replied Duncan, loftily.
"Go ahead then. But you'll have to do without me," rejoined Moran, considerably provoked by the other's domineering tone.
"I will?"
"Yes. I've got other things to do besides standing here gassing all day."
"Indeed!" sneered Duncan.
"Yes, indeed!"
I enjoyed the scene. It looked very much as if there would be lively times without my aid.
"You're getting up on your dignity mighty quick, Dan Moran."
"I don't intend to play servant-in-waiting for any one, Duncan Woodward."
"Who asked you to?"
" 'Actions speak louder than words.' "
"I'm the president of the Models, am I not?"
"Yes, but you're not a model president."
I could not help smiling at Moran's pun. He was not a bad chap, and had he not been to a great extent under Duncan's influence he might have been a first-rate fellow.
Of course, as is the fashion among men as well as boys, all the others groaned at the pun; and then Ellery broke in:--
"Come, come, this will never do. Go ahead with Strong, Dunc."
"I intend to," was the president's rejoinder. "But you all promised to stick by me, and I don't want any one to back out."
"I'm not backing out," put in Moran. "I only want to hurry matters up."
There was a pause after this speech, then Duncan addressed me:--
"Perhaps you are anxious to know why I brought you here?"
"Not particularly," I returned coldly.
Duncan gave a sniff.
"I guess that's all put on."
"Not at all. What I am anxious to know is, what you intend to do with me."
"Well, first of all I want you to get down on your knees and apologize for your conduct toward me this morning."
"Not much!" I cried.
"You are in my power."
"I don't care. Go ahead and do your worst," I replied recklessly, willing to suffer almost anything rather than apologize to such a chap as Duncan Woodward.
Besides, what had I done to call for an apology? I had certainly treated him no worse than he deserved. He was a spoilt boy and a bully, and I would die rather than go down on my knees to him.
"You don't know what's in store for you," said Dunce, nonplussed by my manner.
"As I said before, I'll risk it."
"Very well. Where is the rope, boys?"
"Here you are," answered Pultzer. "Plenty of it."
As he spoke he produced a stout clothes line, five or six yards in length.
"We'll bind his hands a little tighter first," instructed Duncan, "and then his legs. Be sure and make the knots strong, so they won't slip. He must not escape us."
I tried to protest against these proceedings, but with my hands already bound it was useless.
In five minutes the clothes line had been passed around my body from head to feet, and I was almost as stiff as an Egyptian mummy.
"Now catch hold, and we'll carry him into the tool house,"