the automatic came from his pocket ready
for use--and a man crashed into him.

The one who had been talking from the patch of shadow rushed forward at
the same instant. Farland managed to fire once, but the shot went wild.
Then a third man rushed from the darkness, and the detective had the
automatic torn away, and found that he had a battle on his hands.

One man was upon his back, throttling him so that he could not utter a
cry. The others were trying to throw him to the ground. Farland wondered
whether that single shot had been heard, whether assistance would reach
him, for he knew that here was a battle he could not win by force.

Finally they got him down. Something was thrust into his mouth and
bandaged there, effectually gagging him. He was turned over on his face,
and his wrists were lashed behind him. Then his ankles were fastened,
and two of the men, at the whispered instruction of the third, picked
him up like a sack of meal and carried him into the deep shadows.

They did not stop there, but continued toward the river, holding a
conversation in whispers at times, and stopping now and then for a
moment to rest and listen. Farland had been quiet, gathering his
strength, and suddenly he began to struggle.

It was nothing worse than annoyance for his opponents. He was unable to
make an outcry that would attract attention, and he was unable to put up
an effective fight. They threw him upon the ground again and held him
there.

"Another little trick like that, and we'll give you something to keep
you quiet," one of the men whispered into his ear. "We've got you, and
you'd better let it go at that!"

Once more they picked him up and went toward the river. They reached it,
and one of the men hurried away while the other two guarded Farland.
Five minutes passed, and then a powerful motor boat slipped toward the
shore. An instant later Farland was aboard it, a prisoner, and the boat
was rushing through the great river toward the north.

Farland made an attempt to watch the lights along the shore, but one of
the men threw a sack over his face, so that he could not see. And so he
merely listened to the beating of the boat's engine, and tried to
estimate with what speed they were running and how much mileage the
craft was covering.

The sack was heavy, and Jim Farland felt himself half smothered, the
perspiration pouring from his face and neck. He had grown angry for a
moment, angry at himself for walking into