From the direction of the river there had come two boyish screams in quick
and alarming succession. Frank recognized a signal of pain and distress. He
started on a run and reached the edge of the stream in a few moments. He
leaned beyond a bush where the bank shelved down a little distance along
the shore. His eyes lit upon quite an animated scene.

A strange-looking, boxed-in wagon, with an old white horse attached, stood
stationary about forty rods distant. Just this side of it was a ragged,
trampish-looking man. He had just picked up a piece of flat rock, and as he
hurled it Frank discovered that he had aimed at a tree directly across the
narrow stream, but had missed it.

"Why, there's a boy in that tree," said Frank. "That big bully must have
hit him before I came, and that was the boy's cry I heard. The good-for-
nothing loafer!"

Frank rounded the brush in an impetuous and indignant way. He was about to
challenge the man, when the latter shouted something at the boy across the
stream, and Frank stopped to listen.

"Are you going to come down out of that tree?" the man demanded in a
bellowing tone.

There was no reply, and the man repeated the challenge. The boy addressed
continued silent. Frank could see him crouching in a crotch, his face pale
and distressed.

"See here," roared his persecutor, getting furious and shaking his fist at
his victim, "I'm after you, Ned Foreman, and I'm going to get you! Why, you