Ransom by Grace Livingston Hill Page A

permission to go?”
    â€œYou shut up! It’s none o’ yer business,” returned the angry servant. “I want my property. Have ya got it hid somewhere? You produce it mighty good an’ quick, or I’ll show ya where ta get off. You’re nothin’ but a kid that nobody cares anything about anyways. Get outta my way!” And he lurched toward Rannie threateningly.
    Rannie waited long enough to buck his head down and back, tossing his forelock out of his eyes, while his fingers, with one swift movement, gathered the silk tassels of his loud bathrobe and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he made a quick dive straight into the knees of the butler, toppled him neatly and unexpectedly onto the floor, and calmly sat down on his chest, pinioning the arms of the drunken man in a fierce young practiced grip that was like iron.
    â€œWhat’s all this?” demanded Rannie’s father, suddenly appearing on the scene.
    â€œTie ’is feet up, Dad!” directed Rannie calmly, tossing his long locks out of his eyes. “He’s half stewed. He ain’t fit ta have round.” And then to his sister, who had only waited to turn off the gas under her cooking and flown back to the scene of action, “Chris, you call up that policeman again and get him ta remove the debris so I can get dressed. Good night! This is some household, I’ll say! Dad, han’ me that towel on the rack there in the bathroom. I gotta tie this sucker’s hands.”
    Christobel cast one glance at the prostrate Hawkins and flew to the telephone.
    â€œBut Rannie,” said the father as he lost no time in securing the towels, “what’s happened? Are you sure—?”
    â€œTie those feet first!” yelled Rannie. “Talk afterward.”
    Mr. Kershaw stooped and tied a firm knot about the kicking feet, then straightened up, as Hawkins suddenly lifted up his voice and screamed, “Help! Help! Murder!”
    â€œHe’s half stewed, Dad,” said Rannie calmly from the breast of the struggling man. “Can that noise, Hawkins. You won’t get anywhere doing that! Dad, he pulled a gun on me. See! There it is over there in that corner. Doncha touch it, Dad. Ya might wanna get the fingerprints. Say, Dad, you certainly had one buncha crooks running the house!”
    In amazement, the father stood over his young roughneck son and watched his strong young hands tie the knots firmly. His boisterous child could do something, it seemed, even if he was always in trouble in the school where he had spent his last four years.
    â€œBut I don’t understand!” said the father, bewildered. “Do you mean that he tried to shoot you?”
    Then there arose a protest from the half-sobered butler, who looked anything but dignified, lying there in front of his bedroom door.
    â€œNothing like that, Mr. Kershaw,” protested Hawkins. “I was just putting the gun in me other pocket. It’s not loaded at all. Just look in it an’ see!”
    â€œDoncha touch it, Dad. Wait’ll the cop comes.”
    Where did this young man get the worldly wisdom to be so cautious, the father wondered in passing. He had no idea how many mystery stories Rannie had absorbed within the covers of his algebra and Latin grammar during study hours. Rannie was well versed in all the techniques of crime, even if he couldn’t pass in Latin and mathematics.
    â€œIt’s not necessary to send for the police, Mr. Kershaw,” proclaimed the prostrate butler now, in his most butlerish tones, trying to be convincing, with well-feigned dignity. “If you’ll just persuade this crazy kid ta let me up, I’ll open the gun meself an’ let ya see it. It’s only an old gun I carry fer self-defense, sir, but I never carry nothing but the gun, sir. It’s only a fake, sir.”
    â€œLie still!” commanded the master of the house.
    â€œIndeed, sir, yer only making