“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.  Their victim made no protest.  He seemed to himself to be in some horrible dream.  The only thing of which he was conscious was the dimly descried weapon that William held out at him in the darkness.  He was hardly aware of the wastepaper basket thrust over his head.  He watched William anxiously through the basket-work.

“Be careful,” he murmured.  “Be careful, boy!”

He hardly felt the skin which was fastened tightly round his unresisting form by Peggy, the tail tied to one front paw.  Unconsciously he still clasped a bottle of brandy in each arm.

Then came the irate summons of Peggy’s nurse through the dusk.

“Oh, William,” she said panting with excitement, “I don’t want to leave you.  Oh, William, he might kill you!”

“You go on.  I’m all right,” he said with conscious valour.  “He can’t do nothin’ ‘cause I’ve got a gun an’ I can shoot him dead,”—­Mr. Percival Jones shuddered afresh,—­“an’ he’s all tied up an’ I’ve took him prisoner an’ I’m goin’ to take him home.”

“Oh, William, you are brave!” she whispered in the darkness as she flitted away to her nurse.

William blushed with pride and embarrassment.

Mr. Percival Jones was convinced that he had to deal with a youthful lunatic, armed with a dangerous weapon, and was anxious only to humour him till the time of danger was over and he could be placed under proper restraint.

Unconscious of his peculiar appearance, he walked before his captor, casting propitiatory glances behind him.

“It’s all right, little boy,” he said soothingly, “quite all right.  I’m—­er—­your friend.  Don’t—­ah—­get annoyed, little boy.  Don’t—­ah—­get annoyed.  Won’t you put your gun down, little man?  Won’t you let me carry it for you?”

William walked behind, still pointing his pop-gun.

“I’ve took you prisoner for smugglin’,” he repeated doggedly.  “I’m takin’ you home.  You’re my prisoner.  I’ve took you.”