Then Hen,
with all the caution he could summon, pushed open the door, and
stepped out, covering the Wolf with a wicked-looking muzzle. The
bound and gagged boy in the chair saw the strange group which had
so suddenly and so mysteriously appeared, but for a moment the
Wolf, who was standing with his back toward the wardrobe, was
unaware of their presence. He was laughing--a cold-blooded,
curdling, low laugh as he stooped toward the boy's bare feet, his
lighted cigar in his hand. Already those feet were marred by
cruel burns along the tender soles.
As he stopped, he watched his victim's eyes for a sign of
surrender.
"Give me the names!" he demanded in his low snarling, smooth
voice. He watched his victim's eyes and in them, suddenly, he
saw a strange flash of hope, of amazement. Asa was looking over
the Wolf's shoulder.
Without the least suspicion of the truth, the Wolf straightened
up, and lazily turned. What lie saw wiped the sneering,
malicious smile from his face.
Hen, his bulldog jaw set, held the revolver pointed straight at
the traitorous heart.
"Hands up," barked Porky in a voice which seemed to come from
some one else. He was not himself. The sight that had met his
eyes, the bound figure, the blistered feet, the crouching Wolf
with his low, fiendish laugh--it was all like a frightful
electric shock to Porky, and in that horrible instant he came
into his manhood.
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