Hearing some one running behind him, Fred Ripley glanced backward
over his shoulder.

"The mucker!" gritted the lawyer's son. "He mustn't catch me---he
shan't!"

Yet vainly did Ripley try to put on more speed. He kept it up
for a few yards, then knew that he was failing. That ill-advised
anger before the start was surely telling on him now. Dick still
kept forward, gaining a yard or so every few minutes.

"Keep back! Don't you dare touch me, you mucker!" hissed Fred
sharply over his shoulder.

"Mucker?" retorted Prescott. "I'll pay you for that!"

At a bound he covered the distance, throwing first one arm, then
the other, fairly around Ripley. Fred fought furiously to break
the clasp, but was so winded that he couldn't.

"Let go of me! Your touch soils!" he cried, hoarsely.

But Dick still kept his hold, counting: "---twelve, thirteen,
fourteen, fifteen!"

"Fair capture!" rumbled Ben Badger.

The other hounds, or their leaders, were stripping by now. Dick,
at the judge's words, loosed his hold on Fred.