The Boy Scouts' Mountain Camp. Goldfrap John Henry

put in his beardless companion of the afternoon. “They won’t have no chance to tell it.”

      “Guess that’s right, Pete Bumpus,” struck in the bearded man. Suddenly Hiram felt a stinging slap across the face. He turned and faced young Freeman Hunt.

      “How do you like that, eh?” snarled the youth viciously. “Here is where I pay you out for what you Scout kids did to me when we lived in Hampton.”

      He was stepping forward to deliver another blow, when Hiram ducked swiftly, and put into execution a maneuver Rob had shown him. As Freeman, a bigger and heavier lad, rushed forward, Hiram’s long leg and his long left arm shot out simultaneously. The leg engaged Freeman’s ankle, and the Yankee lad’s fist encountered the other’s chin with a sharp crack. Freeman Hunt fell in a heap on the floor. Hiram braced himself for an attack by the whole four. But it didn’t come. Instead, they seemed to think it a good joke.

      “That will teach you to keep your temper,” laughed the boy’s father roughly; “plenty of time to punch him and pummel him when we have them tied up.”

      “Maybe I won’t do it, too,” promised Freeman, gathering himself up, with a crestfallen look.

      Stonington Hunt stepped up to Hiram.

      “Tell me the truth, you young brat,” he snarled; “are the police after us?”

      Hiram pondered an instant before answering. Then he decided on a course of action. Possibly it was a bad one, judging by the immediate results.

      “Yes, they are,” he said boldly, “and if you don’t let us loose, you’ll get in trouble.”

      Stonington Hunt paused irresolutely. Then he said:

      “Get the sloop ready, boys. We’ll get out of here on the jump.”

      A few moments later Hiram’s hands were bound and he was led on board the craft the boys had noticed lying in the creek. A plank connected it with the shore. Tubby, still groaning, was carried on board and thrown down in the bow beside Hiram.

      “We’ll attend to him after a while,” said Hunt brutally; “if he’s badly wounded it’s his own fault, for meddling in other folks’ affairs.”

      One of the men went below. Presently there came a sharp chug-chug, and the anchor being taken in, the sloop began to move off down the creek. As Tubby Hopkins had surmised, she had an engine. Hunt, Jim Dale and Peter Bumpus stood in the bow. Hiram leaned disconsolately against a stay, and Tubby lay at his feet on a coil of rope.

      The shores slipped rapidly by, and pretty soon the creek began to widen.

      Freeman Hunt was at the wheel, and from time to time Jim Dale shouted directions back at him.

      “Port – port! Hard over!” or again, “Hard over! Starboard! There’s a shoal right ahead!”

      A moon had risen now, and in the silvery light the darker water of the shoals, of which the creek seemed full, showed plainly.

      “This crik’s as full of sand-bars as a hound dorg is uv fleas,” grunted Jim Dale. “It won’t be full tide for two hours or more, either. If – ”

      There came a sudden, grinding jar.

      “Hard over! Hard over!” bellowed Jim Dale.

      Freeman Hunt spun the wheel like a squirrel in its cage. But it was too late. The sloop had grounded hard and fast. Leaving Peter Bumpus to guard the boys, Jim Dale and the elder Hunt leaped swiftly aft. They backed the motor, but it was no use. The sloop was too hard aground to be gotten off till the water rose.

      “Two hours to wait till the tide rises,” grumbled Jim Dale; “just like the luck.”

      Slowly the time passed. But never for an instant was the watch over the boys relaxed. Tubby lay still, and Hiram, almost carried out of himself by the rapid rush of recent events, leaned miserably against the stay.