“Look here, Wasp,” one of the others broke in, as he clambered up the tree and threw two ropes across the overhanging branches, “git through with that there little comedy o’ yourn, an’ let’s git out o’ here. We ain’t exactly in no encouragin’ situation ourselves.” He lowered himself to the ground and waited impatiently with the two looped ends in his hands. Williams ignored the thrust and coolly lifted the hood of the other. Then he started back. “Gawd!” he ejaculated. Before them was the ashen face of Jeanne Dudley. She was standing with closed eyes. Her white teeth had sunk so deeply into her trembling lip that a little drop of blood had welled out and now stood like a bright-red spot upon the soft, pale bow of her mouth. For several moments Williams stared at her in genuine amazement. Then, gradually, the consternation on his face was supplanted by his evil, leering grin. Under the influence of their surprise, none of the captors was watching little Peterson. Very slowly, very cautiously, his right hand was working its way into a slit in the side of his garment. There was no hope of entirely freeing himself, and he had no weapon even if he succeeded. But he was not entirely at the end of his resources. Williams turned to his confederates. “Boys,” he said, “as I says before, I got a lot to be thankful for; but I never counted on no blessln’ like this! You’re welcome to that little ungrowed bunch o’ cactus there; but, as for me, I reckon I’ll jest struggle along with this one myself!” “You mean yo’re a goin’ to take the gal?” one of the men asked, grinning. “Them’s my sentiments,” Williams answered. “Y’ see, I been holdin’ a sort a’ option on this here person for some time. Reckon I’ll jest take it up now that I got the chance. Mrs. Wasp Williams! Sounds purty nice, don’t it?” The girl opened her eyes. They were dark and glittering. “You coward!” she taunted. “Why don’t you shoot me? I dare you! I dare you all!” But the grin on his face only broadened. “Reckon I ain’t a goin’ to do nothin’ foolish like that—sweetheart,” he mocked. “I got better plans.” He advanced toward her. Just then Peterson, with a supreme effort, withdrew his hand from the slit in his robe. There was a small cylindrical object in his knotted fist. So far he had not been noticed. Now he suddenly stooped forward and struggled to reach his half-freed hands with his lips. He could not quite make it. Without hesitation, the quick-witted little man dropped the object he had been holding to the ground. He threw himself upon it. The others had quickly realized his intention, and with a rush they were upon him. But they were a moment too late. He had succeeded in closing his teeth upon the precious whistle, and before it could be knocked from his lips its loud, long blast had shrilled through the woods.