"I got that game played on me at school, once," leered Mosher.

"As soon as I swallowed the bait the other fellow kicked me in the shins and ran off and left me there. Now, Prescott, I don't want any more nonsense. Put up your hands!"

"I've already declined," d.i.c.k smiled calmly. "To that refusal I'll add my thanks."

"Put up your hands, or I'll keep the gun turned on you and pull a trigger or two."

"Then the gun isn't loaded," chuckled d.i.c.k.

"Oh, isn't it?"

"No, for you're not bad enough, Tag, to shoot down an unarmed person who isn't your enemy."

"You'll tell the officers you saw me here, won't you?"

"Certainly."

"Then you're my enemy," young Mosher argued, with thorough conviction.

"So you'll put up your hands, and take further orders, as long as I give 'em, or you'll be found taking a long nap on the gra.s.s here!"

"That's another wrong guess you've made, Tag."

Laughing softly, d.i.c.k dropped to a seat on the gra.s.s.

"You're a mighty sa.s.sy fellow," scowled young Mosher.

"I'm very disobliging sometimes," Prescott admitted. "For instance, Tag, I won't believe that you're half as bad as you try to paint yourself."

"Bad?" snorted young Mosher, with something of sullen pride in his voice. "I'm about as mean as they make them. You know what they say I did to that farmer?"

"Well, did you?" challenged Prescott.

"I'm not saying," came the gruff answer. "For one thing, it wouldn't do me a bit of good to deny it. When a fellow has a bad name everywhere any judge and jury will hang him. Now, I happen to object to being hanged, or even to being locked up for perhaps twenty or thirty years. Queer in me, isn't it?"

"What you ought to do," pursued d.i.c.k, "and what you will do, if you are brave and manly, is to drop that gun, face about, and march yourself back to jail."

"And be locked up some more?" quivered Tag in excitement.

"If you're guilty of a.s.saulting Mr. Leigh, you should be also brave and manly enough to walk back to jail, ready to pay the price of your act like a man. If you're not guilty, then you should be man enough to face the world and prove your innocence like a real man. Don't be a cowardly sneak, Tag!"

"A coward?" blurted the other angrily. "You ought to know better'n that. And the officers know better, too; I may be only a boy, but the officers are out in packs, hunting for me. I know, for I've seen two pairs of those fellows go by on the road to-day."

"Are you going to be a man, Tag, or just a sneaking coward?" asked d.i.c.k, as he rose.

"Sit down!" commanded Tag sharply.

"If you really want to talk with me, and will say 'please,' I'll sit down," d.i.c.k smiled back coolly at the angry boy. "But if you're just simply ordering me to sit down, then I won't do anything of the sort. Do you want to talk with me?"

"Sit down!"

"You didn't say 'please.'"

"I'm not going to say it."

"Then good-bye for a little while."

Though the muzzles of the sawed-off shotgun stared wickedly at him, d.i.c.k Prescott turned on his heel, walking off.

"Are you going, now, to tip the officers off that you've seen me?" called Tag.

"Yes."

Behind d.i.c.k, as he kept on his way back toward camp there came a snort of anger. Prescott was not quite as cool as he appeared to be. He knew there was at least a chance that savage Tag Mosher would send the contents of one or both barrels of the gun into his back. d.i.c.k, however, had mastered the first secret of bravery, which is to conceal one's fear.

Again snorting, young Mosher c.o.c.ked both hammers of the shotgun, d.i.c.k heard the clicks, but still walked on.

"I hate to do it!" called Tag warningly.

"Oh, you won't do it," d.i.c.k answered in a tone of calm self-a.s.surance.

Young Prescott kept on for another hundred yards. No sound came from behind him. Unless young Mosher were creeping upon him, Prescott knew that he was now out of range of the shotgun.

Impelled by curiosity, d.i.c.k wheeled about Tag Mosher was nowhere in sight.

"Either that fellow isn't half as bad as he pretends to be, or else not half as desperate as he likes to think himself," d.i.c.k chuckled.

Then, remembering, in a flash, the herbs that he had come to get, the Gridley High School boy deliberately walked back to the spot where he had left this strange vagrant of the forest.

But Tag was no longer there---not in sight, at any rate. Bending over, Prescott collected a goodly bunch of the herbs. Then, after glancing at his watch, he started back to camp.

It was late when he returned. Dave was back from his swim, the table was set, and all was in readiness to sit down.

"Too late to use the herbs to-day, I guess," said Tom, as d.i.c.k laid them down. "You were gone a long time, old fellow."

"I had quite a way to go," d.i.c.k replied quietly. Then he cut a number of gra.s.s stalks, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g them to different lengths.

"Fellows, I want you to draw lots. I don't feel any too much like a walk to Five Corners after dinner, but if I get the short straw I'll go."

"No; you'd better not try it," warned Darrin. "Your hip might begin to give you trouble before you get back. If someone has to go, let the other five draw."

But d.i.c.k insisted that the draw should decide it all.

"What's the matter?" asked Tom Reade shrewdly. "Have you found traces of Tag Mosher?"

"I've seen him," d.i.c.k replied, "and talked with him. Come to think of it, I believe two fellows had better go. The two who are to go will be those who draw the shortest straws. All ready?"

d.i.c.k covered one end of the gra.s.s stalks, so that no one could be sure as to which lot he drew. The lots fell to Reade and Darrin.

"Now, tell us about the meeting," begged Hazelton.

"Let's sit down and begin to eat," Prescott proposed. "As we eat I will describe the meeting."