The High School Boys in Summer Camp Part 22

"Hold on a minute, so that I can talk with you," urged Prescott.

By this time they were at a considerable distance from the camp.

Suddenly the prowler halted, wheeling about like a flash, glaring into young Prescott's eyes.

"Now, I'll learn you!" growled the prowler.

"Do you mean that you'll _teach_ me?" queried Prescott. "What?"

"I'll learn you," growled the other, "not to keep on banging around me when I don't want you!"

"Do you happen to have any idea," d.i.c.k persisted coolly, "that your name is probably Page, and that you undoubtedly have a very rich father, who is trying to find you?"

"Where did you read that fairy tale?" sneered the prowler.

"Partly on your skin to-day," d.i.c.k rejoined, "when I came upon you as you were dressing near that pool."

"Stop kidding me!" commanded the other sternly. "And now back to you cosy little bed for you! Fade! Vanish! If you don't then you'll soon wish you had!"

But d.i.c.k held his ground, despite the very evident sincerity of the other's threat, and gazed unflinchingly back at the prowler.

"Let me tell you," d.i.c.k went on. "Of course I cannot be positive, but there is a missing heir who has, on his chest and one shoulderblade just such marks as I saw on you to-day when you were sitting by the pool putting on your shirt?"

"Oh, forget that thrilling stuff!" jeered the other. "Don't you suppose I know who my father is? Old Bill Mosher hasn't suddenly grown rich. How could Bill get rich when he is in jail for drunkenness?"

"So you think your name is Mosher?" pursued Prescott.

"I know it is," replied the prowler harshly. "And, around this neck of the woods a fellow couldn't have a harder, tougher name than Mosher."

"But if your name were really Page-----" pressed d.i.c.k.

"No use stringing me like that," snapped the other. Even in the darkness, lit only here and there by starlight, the scowl on his face was visible. "Tell you what," declared Mosher, an instant later.

"Well?"

"Beat it!"

"I don't under------"

"Yes, you do," retorted the self-styled Mosher. "Vamoose!

Twenty-three in a hurry! Make your get-away!"

"Until I've made you listen to reason," Prescott insisted, "I won't leave you."

"Oh, yes, you will, and right now, or-----"

"No!"

"See here!"

Mosher held a hard, h.o.r.n.y fist menacing before d.i.c.k's face, but the high school boy failed to wince.

"Git! Now, or crawl later!" warned Mosher.

"I'm going to make you listen to-----"

"Put up your guard!"

At least Mosher was "square" enough to give warning of his intentions.

He threw himself on guard, then waited for perhaps five seconds.

"Are you going to cool down and listen!" demanded d.i.c.k Prescott firmly.

Out shot the Mosher youth's left fist. d.i.c.k dodged. It was a feint; d.i.c.k nearly stopped Mosher's right.

Blows rained in thickly now. Not every one could Prescott dodge, though he was more agile and better trained than this more powerful youth.

At last, smarting from a glancing blow on the nose, d.i.c.k darted in and clinched with his adversary. It was bad judgment, but punishment had stung him into desperate recklessness.

"Stop it!" panted the high school boy.

"Won't!" retorted Mosher, increasing his pressure about the smaller boy's waist until Prescott felt dizzy. In that extremity the Gridley boy worked a neat little trip. Down they went, rolling over and over, fighting like wild cats until Mosher secured the upper hand and sat heavily on the high school boy.

"I gave you all the chance I could," growled Mosher, planting blow after blow on d.i.c.k's head, face and chest, "and you wouldn't help yourself anyway. Now, you'll take all your medicine, and next time you meet me you'll know enough to leave me alone."

Held as he was, without really a show, d.i.c.k Prescott fought as long as he could, and with desperate courage. But at last he felt forced to yell:

"Fellows! Gridley! Here---quickly!"

"They're too far away, and, besides, they're asleep," jeered Mosher, to the accompaniment of three more hard blows. "Now, I reckon you've had enough to know your own business after this and let mine alone. If I had any cord I'd tie you here. As it is-----"

Leaping suddenly to his feet, Mosher turned and ran swiftly through the woods.

d.i.c.k badly hurt, yet as determined as ever, pursued for a few score of yards. Then realizing that he could hear no sound of the other's steps to guide him in the right direction, the high school boy halted.

"I may as well give it up this time," he said to himself grimly.

"Besides, my main job is to guard the camp. If I go roaming through the woods, Mosher, as he calls himself, will double back on the camp and clean out our provisions while I'm groping out here in the dark."

So d.i.c.k paused only long enough to make sure of his course back.

Then he plodded along, wincing with the pain of many blows that he had received.

"I'm lucky, anyway, that I didn't get an eye bunged up," he reflected.

"I smart and I ache, but I can see straight, and I don't believe I've received any blow that will disfigure me for the next few days. My, what a steam hammer that fellow is in a fight! I wonder if he really is the son of that hard character called Bill Mosher?"

As d.i.c.k neared the camp he stepped more softly. He wanted to see whether Mosher really had come back.

But no figure was discernible in the clearing beyond the camp.

d.i.c.k walked in more confidently. His first care was to examine the food supply.

"Nothing gone," d.i.c.k murmured. Then he looked about for a stick large enough to serve as a weapon at need. While doing so his glance fell upon an axe.