tective grabbed him and with an oath dragged him back.

"Y' gone clean nutty?" he protested furiously. "Wanta get croaked, y'
poor fish? Fat chanst y' got with them bohunks armed with rifles!
It's six to one!"

"They're scaring the poor devil to death, I tell you. See, they're
getting ready to drive him into the bush! Man, don't you understand?
The flies! He'll be eaten alive!"

McCorquodale carried his profanity pretty close to the surface at all
times, but the wellspring of it that gushed from him as once more he
dragged Kendrick off his feet sounded the depths of anxiety and formed
a lurid preface to angry argument. Had Kendrick forgotten Stiles?
They couldn't hope to save both prisoners at once. Get Stiles first
and they could organize a search-party for Podmore afterward.

"The whole mob'll be chasin' off in a minute an' that's the chanst we
gotta lay for. Don't go 'n' spoil everythin' just as it's comin' our
way. For the love o' Pete, 'bo, stuff moss in your ears an' sit tight!"

Kendrick had himself in hand again immediately. In an open fight with
that gang two men hadn't a ghost of a show. As it was, their situation
was desperate enough. The best that could be done for Podmore was to
let things take their course for the moment. Later----

The detective's prediction was being fulfilled rapidly. The last bill
had been stuck in place and the drunken gang had staggered to their
feet, jeering and laughing at the grotesque appearance of their victim.
They formed in two lines with sticks in their hands in preparation for
the moment when the prisoner would be released and forced to run the
gauntlet of their blows in his flight to the woods.

Podmore's eyes were rolling in the agony of his terror. A crimson
slobber drooled from his swollen lips. As he was cut loose from the
cords that bound him to the post and the first stick thumped his back
he sprang away with a frenzied yell.

There was but one path left him--straight down between those two lines
of hideous leering faces. Beyond he would be free and the woods for
him held no terrors to equal the panic of the moment. With arms hugged
over his head for protection he made his dash to such good purpose that
he leaped by the excited rows of man-baiters with only one or two bad
bruises. In their eagerness to achieve a good wallop some of his
intoxicated tormentors missed him altogether and succeeded only in
swinging themselves off their feet as he