was too much for our hero. He drew back his fist, and a moment later
Andy Foger was stretched out on the grass. He lay there for a moment,
and then rose up slowly to his knees, his face distorted with rage.

"You--you hit me!" he snarled.

"Not until you hit first," said Tom calmly.

"Bless my punching bag! That's so!" exclaimed Mr. Damon.

"You'll suffer for this!" whined Andy, getting to his feet, but taking
care to retreat from Tom, who stood ready for him. "I'll get square with
you for this! Jake, come on, and we'll get our guns!"

Andy turned and hurried back toward the shed, followed by the
evil-looking man, who had apparently been undecided whether to attack
Mr. Damon or Tom. Now the bully and his companion were in full retreat.

"We'll get our guns, and then we'll see whether they'll want to stay
where they're not wanted!" went on Andy, threateningly.

"Bless my powderhorn! What had we better do?" asked Mr. Damon.

"I guess we'd better go back," said Tom calmly. "Not that I'm afraid of
Andy. His talk about guns is all bluff; but I don't want to get into any
more of a row, and he is just ugly and reckless enough to make trouble.
I'm afraid we can't learn what we came to find out, though I'm more
convinced than ever that Andy is using my plans to make his aeroplane."

"But what can you do?"