Dick Prescott and his crowd. I'll hunt up a good stout club,
too, and then if that confounded dog is troublesome I'll settle
him."

For an hour or more Fred ran the car at random over one country
road after another.

"I wonder if that pup ever goes to sleep," he muttered. "I'd
really like to know. If I'm going back that way to-night I'd
better be turning about, for there is a bad storm coming."

Turning the car, he drove swiftly back again. In about twenty
minutes he reached a part of the road directly above the camp.

Overhead the lightning was flashing brightly. Heavy thunder followed
each flash. Large drops of rain were falling, but Fred, bent
on his evil errand, did not mind. At any rate he was not afraid
of lightning. Aided by the flashes he searched along the side
of the road until he found a branch of a tree that he shaped into
a club with his knife.

"I won't wake Prescott's muckers," he reflected, "and I want to
be sure to attract the dog's notice if he is on guard."

A broad, white streak of lightning showed the tent from the road
as Ripley, armed with the club, drew nearer to it.

Fred halted. "They're all asleep, the muckers!" he muttered.
"I'm glad of that. Where is that dog? Why doesn't he come around?
I'm ready for him now."