Frank shook his head dubiously. "I don't know," he said. "If there was
a bunch of them and if they sneaked up from behind while he was
talking."
"Just the same," said Bob, "old Jack would put up some battle. I'll
bet you the furniture got mussed up all right, all right. That's the
reason for that crash. Probably the microphone was torn from the
cords. They may even have wrecked the station. Boy, oh boy, don't I
wish I'd been there." And Bob doubled up his fists and pranced around,
making deadly swings at imaginary foes.
"Calm down, Bob," said Frank, dropping into a chair and running a hand
through his hair as he was in the habit of doing when perplexed. "We
don't know that it happened the way we figure. We don't know what
happened. Maybe Jack was badly hurt, maybe he was killed. Or he may be
a prisoner of the bandits.
"Oh," he cried, leaping to his feet and beginning to walk up and down
the room distractedly, "isn't there something we can do? This is
maddening."
"Calm down yourself, Frank," said Bob, always the cooler of the two in
a crisis. "If we can't do any better, at least we can wire to Jack's
father and find out in a few hours what happened."
At this moment the door was pushed open.
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