drawn down a tattered, battered old cap so that it screened his
face.

"I want to get a better look at you," Prescott replied. "I want
to be able to know you anywhere. Tan colored woollen shirt; brown
corduroy trousers; low-cut black shoes; cap defies description.
Now, let me see your face."

With that Dick bent quickly, picking up an oil-soaked bunch of
faggots that he had prepared before the others had turned in for
the night and dropped them upon the campfire.

Like a flash he was back, close to the stranger. "Don't you dare
try to get up!" Dick threatened, swinging the club.

"Hit me, if you dare!" leered the other. "I'm going to get upright
now!"

With that he made a lurching move forward. Prescott swung the
club, though of course he did not intend to beat the stranger
about the head.

His indecision left him off his guard. The stranger closed in
on the club, wrenching it from Prescott's hand and tossing it
far away. But Dick dropped, wrapping his arms about the other's
legs and throwing him.

Just as the two went down in a crash the fire, which had been
smoking, now blazed up.