"I've caught the enemy and he is ours," declared Phil cheerfully. "I
have him tied to the side of the boat. I can't say how long it may
take him to get away, and he may climb back on the boat and try to eat
us up. But, at least, we can get ready for him."

The robber was doggedly working at the rope that bound him. "I am
going to get back at you," he yelled savagely.

"Oh, why doesn't some one come?" cried Eleanor. "I am so afraid he'll
get away."

There was a cheerful whistle at the top of the embankment. It turned
to one of horrified amazement as the artist, Theodore Brown, took in
the situation.

"What has happened?" he called out as he ran down the hill, swinging a
small stick in his hand. "I heard your screams away over in the
fields. What have you got there?"

Phil told the story, "What shall we do with our prisoner, Mr. Brown?
We can't be bothered with him. We must get ready for our tea party,"
she concluded.

"I don't know what you wish to do with the young rascal," rejoined Mr.
Brown, "but I know very well what I intend to do." The artist's face
was set and stern. His eyes gleamed with righteous anger. Then he
began calmly rolling up his sleeves. He went forward to the prisoner.
"I am going to give you a taste of this," he declared, swinging his
stick through the air. It hit Phil's captive with a swish, once,
twice, three times. Mr. Brown was just warming up to his work.