"Take me to him, that I may help decide for myself."

"If he is your son, sir," d.i.c.k went on solemnly, and hating his task, "I am much afraid that you are going to be disappointed in him. The boy is known as Tag Mosher. He believes a dissolute, drunken, thieving fellow named Bill Mosher, who is now in jail, to be his father. Tag is himself a wild young savage of the forest, and maintains himself by st---poaching."

"If this young man is, indeed, my son," murmured Mr. Page, his eyes glistening, "how fortunate that I am about to come up with him! He will have no need to steal hereafter. He shall have comfort, protection, proper training at last! But where is he?

Why are you keeping me from him? How long since you have seen him?"

"Only a few minutes ago," d.i.c.k answered. "He had just robbed our food supply. We pursued him, but lost him in the woods."

"Then these woods must be scoured until the boy is found!" cried Mr. Page. "Colquitt, this is a task for you. Employ as many more of your force of detectives as you may need, but you must find the boy without an hour's delay."

"I must tell you something else, sir," d.i.c.k went on in a distressed tone. "Even for my own peace of mind I must have it over with as early as possible. Mr. Page, the boy is now roaming the woods armed with a shotgun and a revolver. He is a fugitive from justice."

"What is that you say?" cried Mr. Page, his face growing haggard and ghastly. "My boy----my son---a fugitive from justice!"

"He may not be your son, sir," broke in Tom Colquitt.

Then the whole story came out. With it d.i.c.k described the birthmarks he had seen on Tag when the latter was at the swimming pool.

"That's my boy---my son!" declared Mr. Page. "And, oh! To think of the fate that has come upon him. Wanted, perhaps for homicide!"

Then suddenly the flash of determination returned to the father's eyes. He rose, stood erect, and went on:

"If he is my son, he needs guidance, aid---protection of such rights as he may still have left. Above all, he must surrender himself and go back to face the laws of the land like a man! If he has done wrong, he must bow to the decision of a court, whatever that may be. If this boy is my son, I will see to it that he does all of this. If he is not my son, then-----"

"Then you will do well to drop him like a piece of hot metal,"

interposed the detective quietly.

"Silence!" flashed Mr. Page. "If Tag Mosher is not really my son, then I will stand by his last spark of manhood as though he were my son, and in memory of my own boy!"

"If you will permit me," proposed Tom Colquitt, "I will go back to the road, get into the car and order your man to drive me to the county jail. There I will see old Bill Mosher, and drag the truth out of him. What Mosher has to say will be to the point."

"Go, by all means!" pleaded Mr. Page, who had now sunk down into his seat trembling.

"And I'll go with him," declared Hibbert, jumping up. "Cheer up, my old friend, and we'll find out all the facts that there are to be learned. We'll be back here as speedily as possible."

The hours pa.s.sed---hours of rain at the camp. It was a deluge that kept all hands in the tent, though even that place was wet. A pretense of supper was prepared over two oil stoves. Mr. Page made an effort to eat, but was not highly successful.

The hours dragged on, but none thought of going to bed. At last quick steps were heard outside.

"That must be Colquitt and Hibbert!" cried Mr. Page, starting up, trembling, though he soon recovered his self-control.

"Don't go out in the rain. Wait for another moment, sir," begged d.i.c.k, placing a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Do you think I could wait another minute?" demanded Mr. Page excitedly. Then he darted out into the downpour.

"Hibbert, is that you?" he screamed.

CHAPTER XIX

SEEN IN A NEW, WORSE LIGHT

"It's Hibbert," was the reply from the darkness.

Then two figures came tramping through the rain, over the soggy ground, next splashing into the tent, the flaps of which d.i.c.k and Harry held aside.

As they came in Mr. Page almost tottered toward them.

"Well," he demanded impatiently. "What did you learn?"

"I guess the boy is yours, Mr. Page," Colquitt answered. "Bill Mosher told us a pretty straight story. He found the child at the railway wreck, and he and his wife took it home, expecting that parents or friends would soon claim it. Bill says his wife was a good woman, and, when no one claimed the boy, she kept it and loved it as her own. Bill admits that his part in the transaction was due to the hope of receiving a reward. After his wife died, Bill, it seems, went to the dogs, followed his naturally shiftless bent, and, from a common vagrant, became a drunkard and common thief. Yet Bill claims, with an air of a good deal of virtue, that he never stole anything he didn't really need, and that he brought Tag up the same way."

Mr. Page, white-faced and trembling, listened to the detective's dry recital.

"You have taken pains to find further verification of the fact that this unhappy boy is my son, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes," the detective went on. "Bill described with great minuteness the clothing the child wore when found, even to the embroidered letter 'p' on the underclothing. And Bill tells me that his sister has kept that clothing ever since, in the hope that something might come of it. The sister also has two pictures of Tag, taken when a baby."

"Where does that sister live?" cried the father. "Take me to her home at once!"

"She lives in another state, some four hundred miles from here,"

smiled Tom Colquitt. "Mr. Page, I advise that you find the boy, first. There isn't any real doubt as to his being your son.

You had better wait for further proofs until after you have found the boy---who, according to all accounts, stands badly in need of a real father just now."

"You are right---quite right," admitted Mr. Page. "Yes, we will find my son first. But tell me something more. Didn't the boy know that Bill Mosher wasn't his real father?"

"No; it had never been hinted to him," Colquitt answered. "Bill kept the truth from the child, and, after Bill's wife died, they moved over into this part of the country, where no one knew their past history."

"And has my son never been in school?"

"Oh, yes; the compulsory education law came to the rescue, and the boy had a grammar school education before he took to the woods altogether."

"I know something definite, at last," sighed the unhappy father.

"I know that my boy is alive, and that he needs a father. Moreover, I feel certain that he is at this moment not far away from me.

What shall we do next? Did you wire for more detectives from your agency?"

"There was no need to do so," Colquitt replied. "There are several officers now looking for the lad, and they are certain to come upon him. Hibbert and I will aid in the search. The chauffeur will bring in four folding cots and some blankets. We shall have to impose upon these young men for shelter to-night, as this is the point from which we must take up the chase in the morning."

At least one man in the tent lay with eyes wide open all night, and that was Mr. Page. By daylight the rain had stopped. The sun came up, drying the ground in the open s.p.a.ces, raising a semi-fog under the big trees as the moisture steamed up. It was a close, humid morning, yet all rose so early that breakfast had been eaten before six o'clock.

Then Mr. Page's party went away in the automobile, on some errand of their own.

"I wonder how the girls got through the rain last night?" mused Dave Darrin.

"They must have gotten along all right,"