From his pocket he drew a knife, springing the blade open.

Snip! snip! and the young engineer was free of his lashings.
"There's plenty of this cord left," declared Tom.

"We'll fix up our black friend." "Do not use that word, Senor," implored Nicolas.

"He is _no_ good! He is scoundrel! He call me Greaser, an' I will keeck off his head for eet!" "Wait until we get him tied," Tom proposed.
Sambo, by this time, had gained strength enough to sit up.

He was wondering whether he could rise to his feet and sprint away from this dangerous little fury of a Mexican.
"Wait, you black cloud!" cried Nicolas.