There was a stifled laugh at this. “Takes it well,” remarked one of his captors in a whisper. “Yes—but wait,” was the significant comment. “You take off some of the wrappings. Be careful he doesn’t spot you.” Bill was soon more comfortable, as far as breathing was concerned, but his limbs were still cramped from the cords that bound them, and he was in a most uncomfortable position. He seemed to be reclining in the tonneau of the car, and some one was in the seat with him. He tried his best to make out the features, but it was dark, and the half masks which his captors wore prevented recognition. Nor did the voices afford any clew, for when those in the auto spoke it was either in half whispers or in mumbled words so that the tones were not clear. At first Bill thought it was some of the students from Westfield who were playing a joke on him, but later he changed this opinion. He had an idea that it was either Mersfeld, North or some of their crowd, but the conversation among his captors soon disclosed that they were not these lads. “I wonder what they want of me, anyhow,” mused Bill. “It was foolish to pay any attention to that note. I wish I had looked more carefully at the writing.” Yet, as he tried to recall the characters he was sure he had never seen the hand before. “It’s a joke, though, sure,” decided the pitcher. “And it’s some young fellows who have me in tow. Guess I’ll talk and see if they’ll answer.” He squirmed into an easier position, and fired this question at those in the auto: “Where are you taking me?” “You’ll soon see,” was the reply. “If I ever find out who you are, I’ll pay you back well for this,” went on Bill. “You’re welcome to—if you find out,” was the significant answer. “I know you!” suddenly exclaimed the captive. “You’re fellows from Sandrim, trying to get even for us boys taking your boats,” went on Bill, for, not long before that, the lads from Westfield had carried a lot of boats from their rival school, and deposited the craft in the middle of their own campus. “You’re from Sandrim,” declared Bill positively. A laugh was his only answer. The auto kept up the speed, and presently turned from the main road, into a sort of lane. “Is this the place?” asked the lad who was in the tonneau with Bill. “A little farther,” answered the one at the wheel. “Look out he doesn’t slip away from you.” “Oh, I’ve got him,” was the reply, and a hand took a firmer grip of Bill’s shoulder. The car came to a sudden stop. A door of a building which the pitcher could see was a sort of shack, or hut, was opened, and a shaft of light came out. “Is that you—” began a voice. “Yes, keep quiet!” was the quick retort. “We’ve got him. Help carry him to the room, and don’t talk.” Before Bill could prevent it he was again tied up, and some one lifted him from the car. He was carried along in the darkness, trying in vain to make out what sort of a place he was in.