But now he commanded as though he were master of the situation:  “Throw some of that water on the boy’s face and bring him to,” and while they hastened to follow out his suggestion he poured out the rage in his soul: 

“Shame on you, you big cowards, for torturing that poor little kid!  You’re a nice pack of heroes, you are!  Only twenty to one!  But I’ll pay you back for this some day, and don’t you forget it!  And if you’ll untie my hands I’ll take you one at a time now.  I guess I could just about do up two of you at a time, you big bullies, you!”

And now one of the larger Crows rushed up to Tug, and drew off to strike him in the face.  But Tug only stared back into the fellow’s eyes with a fiercer glare in his own, and cried: 

“Hit me!  My hands are tied now!  It’s a good chance for you, and you’ll never get another, for I’ll remember the cut of that jaw and the mole on your cheek in spite of your mask, and you’ll wish you had never been born before I get through with you!”

Tug’s rash bravado infuriated the Crows until they were ready for any violence, but the head Crow interposed and pushed aside the one who still threatened Tug.  He said laughingly: 

“Let him alone, boys; we want him in prime condition for the grand final torture ceremonies.  Let’s finish up the others.”

Then they laughed and went back to the first two wretches, and made life miserable for them to the end of their short wits.  They were afraid to try any more experiments on History, and left him lying by the fire, slowly recovering his nerves.

All the while Tug had remained so very quiet that the Crows detailed to watch him had slightly relaxed their vigilance.  He had been silently working at the cords with which his hands were tied behind his back, and by much straining and turning and torment of flesh he had at length worked his right hand almost out of the rope.

Soon he saw that the Crows were about to begin on him.  He thought the whole performance an outrage on the dignity of an American citizen, and he gave the cords one last fierce jerk that wrung his right hand loose, though it left not a little of the skin on the cords; and the first Crow to lay a hand on his shoulder thought he must have touched a live wire, for Tug’s hand came flashing from behind his back, and struck home on the fellow’s nose.

Then Tug warmed up to the scrimmage, and his right and left arms flew about like Don Quixote’s windmill for a few minutes, until two of the two dozen Crows lighted on his back and pinioned his arms down and bore him gradually to his knees.

Just as the rest were closing in to crush Tug,—­into mincemeat, perhaps,—­History, who had been lying neglected on the ground near the fire, rose to the occasion for once.  It seemed as if he had, as it were, sat down suddenly upon the spur of the moment.  He rolled over swiftly, caught up the two pokers which had been restored to the fire after they had been used to frighten him, and, before he could be prevented, thrust the handle of one of them into Tug’s grasp, and rose to his feet, brandishing the other like a sword.