"You loafer!" hissed Dodge, dashing the water from his face.

"Haven't you had enough?" asked Prescott mildly. "Didn't the water cool you off?"

Dodge didn't reply, but he walked a few steps away before attempting to step on dry land, thus avoiding his late opponent.

"That little business is all over," declared Tom Reade coolly.

"Bend down by the water, d.i.c.k, and I'll wash your nose with my handkerchief. Greg, bring one of the lanterns here."

"Now, I guess it's time for our practice, Bayliss," Dave announced, stepping over to Bert's companion.

"I've got to look after Dodge," mumbled Bayliss.

"No, you don't!" Dave warned him. "After the kind of language you have used to me you can't slip out of trouble quite so easily as all that. Get ready."

"Quit---can't you?" protested Bayliss.

"No; not unless you'll admit that you lied when you applied disagreeable names to me," said Dave Darrin firmly. "Bayliss, are you ready to admit that you are a liar?"

"You bet I'm not!" cried the other hoa.r.s.ely. "Then back up your words! Ready! Here's something coming!"

That "something" arrived. Bayliss fairly gasped as Darrin started in on him.

But Dave drew back, holding up his fists.

"You didn't get started fairly, Bayliss," Darry declared. "I want you to have as fair a show as possible. Draw in a deep breath.

Fill your lungs with air. Plant your feet firmly. Put up your hands."

Patiently Darry waited for perhaps three quarters of a minute.

"Now!" he said at last.

Then the fight went on, but it was one sided. Had Bayliss done himself justice, it might have resulted in a draw, at least, for Bayliss was strong and quick. But he lacked courage.

Presently Bayliss, considerably battered, though not as severely punished as Dodge had been, went down to his knees, nor would he rise.

"Going to get up and go on?" demanded Darry, pausing before him.

"Or do you quit?"

Bayliss, breathing hard, did not answer.

"What you need here," declared the farmer, stepping forward and puffing slowly at his pipe, "is a referee. I'll take the job.

Bayliss, if you believe that you can do anything more, then the place for you is on your feet. I'll give you until I count five."

Deliberately the farmer counted, but Bayliss remained on his knees.

"Bayliss loses," announced the farmer. "Not that I believe he ever had much in the fighting line to lose, but he loses."

"I'll wait five minutes for him," offered Darry. "By that time he'll be in shape to go on again."

"He's in good enough shape now," declared the self-appointed referee.

"The point is that Mr. Bayliss hasn't any liking for boxing.

He's the kind of young man that finds croquet strenuous enough!"

The four recent combatants now had some repairing to do. d.i.c.k and Dave were attended by their own friends. The farmer offered to help Bert Dodge ease his bruises. Greg made a tender of his services to Bayliss, but was gruffly repulsed.

"Everything is over," called the farmer at last. "I must wake up my horses and get on to Gridley. Young gentlemen, I'm much obliged for the rest that my horses have had, and also for my entertainment. Dodge, I don't believe you're really worth an ounce of soda crackers, but I realize that you don't feel as bright as usual, so I'm going to help you get the tires on your car."

Reaching up, the farmer untied one end of the line on which the tires hung. Letting the tubes fall at his feet. The man then drew a card out of his pocket and handed it to Reade.

"That will tell you who I am, if you ever want to find me," suggested the farmer.

"George Simpson," said Tom, reading the card. "Mr. Simpson, we're certainly glad of having had the pleasure of meeting you."

Reade thereupon gravely introduced the other members of d.i.c.k & Co.

"Glad to have met you, boys," said Simpson, picking up the tires.

"Now, come along, Dodge and Bayliss, if you want my help, for I really must be moving."

"This hasn't been such a dull evening, after all," jovially commented Tom Reade, after the late visitors had vanished into the darkness surrounding the camp.

"I'm sorry for the fighting, though," mused d.i.c.k aloud. "I don't enjoy anything that makes bad blood, or more bad blood, between human beings."

"You couldn't do anything else but fight," retorted Greg sharply.

"That's the only reason why I fought," Prescott rejoined.

Half or three quarters of an hour later two resonant honks sounded from the red Smattach automobile up at the roadside. d.i.c.k & Co.

rightly judged that Simpson had taken this means of signaling them that the Smattach car was ready to go on its way again.

"What's the matter with Mr. Simpson?" Tom demanded at the top of his voice.

From the throats of all of d.i.c.k & Co. came the ready response!

"He's all right!"

Honk! honk! honk! Mr. Simpson had heard this tribute to himself.

Then the chugging of a starting car was heard. The noise soon sounded fainter, then died away.

"That's the last of the firm of Dodge and Bayliss for this season!"

chuckled Dave Darrin.

In this conclusion, however, it was wholly probable that Darry was wrong. He would have been sure of it, himself, had he been privileged to hear the talk of Bert Dodge and his companion as the enraged and humiliated pair drove swiftly over the rough road on their way back to Gridley.

"I can't think of anything bad enough to call d.i.c.k Prescott,"

growled Bert, who sat at the steering wheel.

"Don't try to," grumbled Bayliss. "It would poison your mind."

"The mucker!"