"
Mr. Percival Jones wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"Where did you get that rifle, little boy?" he asked in a voice he
strove to make playful. "Is it--ah--is it loaded? It's--ah--unwise,
little boy. Most unwise. Er--give it to me to--er--take care of.
It--er--might go off, you know."
William moved the muzzle of his weapon, and Mr. Percival Jones
shuddered from head to foot. William was a brave boy, but he had
experienced a moment of cold terror when first he had approached his
captive. The first note of the quavering high-pitched voice had,
however, reassured him. He instantly knew himself to be the better
man. His captive's obvious terror of his pop-gun almost persuaded him
that he held in his hand some formidable death-dealing instrument. As
a matter of fact Mr. Percival Jones was temperamentally an abject
coward.
"You walk up to the seats," commanded William. "I've took you prisoner
for smugglin' an'--an'--jus' walk up to the seats."
Mr. Percival Jones obeyed with alacrity.
"Don't--er--_press_ anything, little boy," he pleaded as he went.
"It--ah--might go off by accident. You might do--ah--untold damage."
Peggy, armed with the wastepaper basket and the skin, followed
open-mouthed.
At the seat William paused.
"Peggy, you put the basket over his head an' pin his arms down--case
he struggles, an' tie the skin wot I shot round him, case he
struggles."
Peggy stood upon the seat and obeyed.
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