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The High School Boys in Summer Camp, a fiction by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 12. "Tag" Is The Game---Tag Mosher! |
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_ CHAPTER XII. "TAG" IS THE GAME---TAG MOSHER!
"Greg, Dave and Tom, you block him. Get through, Harry---some way! Don't let 'em stop you." It was three days later, and Dick & Co. were at work at their main task during this summer camping, which was to train hard and try to fit themselves for the football squad when high school should open again. Hazelton came on, at racing speed. He ducked low, making a gallant effort. He nearly succeeded in getting through, but Tom's tackle brought him to ground just at the right moment. "Now, try that over again," Prescott said. So the work went on, vigorously, for another hour---until all of the boys were tired out, hot and panting. "That's the most grueling work I ever did in the same space of time," muttered Reade, mopping his face. "Yes; it's the kind of work for which football calls," rejoined Prescott, also mopping his face. "Dan, get up off the ground!" "I'm hot," muttered Dalzell, "and I'm tired." "Then rest on a campstool. Don't chill yourself by lying on the ground when you're so warm." After a few seconds of contemplated mutiny, Danny Grin rose and found a seat on a stool. "As soon as you're cool, three of you go to the water and wash off," Dick ordered. "The other three of us will stay here until you get back." That was the order of the day now. At least two, and usually three of Dick & Co. always remained near camp. If Mosher planned to come again he would find a "committee" waiting to receive him. There were more supplies, too, to guard now than there had been. On the morning after Dick's encounter, a farmer had driven into camp. His wagon had been well laden with all manner of canned food supplies, even to tins of French mushrooms. These had come from Alonzo Hibbert, with a note of thanks for the entertainment of himself and friends. "These provisions are mighty welcome," Prescott had remarked at the time, "but I'm not sure but that I would rather have Hibbert himself here---I've so much to tell him." "He'll come, in time, when he gets your letter at the Eagle House," Reade had answered, for Dick had told all his chums his suspicions regarding young Mosher. "What are we to do this afternoon?" asked Dave, seating himself beside Prescott as three of the chums started for the swimming pool. "Gymnastics," Dick replied. "Especially bar work. And some boxing, of course." "You ought to be excused from boxing for the present," grinned Darry. "You look as though you had had enough for a while." For Dick's left cheek was still decorated with a bruise that young Mosher had planted there. The boxing of Dick & Co., this summer, was real work. It was done with bare knuckles, though, of course, without anger or the desire to do injury. Boxing with bare knuckles was Prescott's own idea for hardening himself and his chums for the rough work of the gridiron. "I'll take my share of the boxing," Dick retorted. "Having a sore spot on my face will make me all the more careful in my guard." "Queer we don't hear from Hibbert," mused Greg Holmes. "Not at all," Dave contended. "Hibbert simply isn't back at the Eagle House yet, and perhaps the hotel people have had no orders about forwarding his mail It may be a fortnight before we hear from him." "Thanks to the thoughtfulness of Hibbert we can remain in camp a good deal more than a fortnight longer," observed Prescott, glancing over the greatly increased food supply. "Perhaps it was all right for Hibbert to repay our courtesy the other day, but he has sent us something like twenty or thirty times as much food as his party ate." "I guess Hibbert has more money than he knows what to do with," mused Greg aloud. "Even if he has," Prescott smiled seriously, "there is no reason why he should feel called upon to keep us in food. I'd give four fifths of that food to know where to reach Hibbert, or any of that party, in a hurry. Jupiter!" "What's up?" asked Dave, eyeing his chum in astonishment, for Dick had suddenly leaped to his feet, and was now dancing about like an Indian. "Say, but we must have fried eggs in the place of brains!" cried young Prescott reproachfully. "What calls forth that severe remark?" demanded Darry. "Why, we know well enough where to get hold of Hibbert's party," Dick went on. "Do we?" asked Greg. "Certainly," cried Dick triumphantly. "Just send a note to Mr. Colquitt in care of Blinders' Detective Agency. I'm going to write the note now!" Dick was half-way to the tent when Darry called after him: "By the way, in what city is the Blinders' agency located?" Dick halted short, looking blank. "I don't know," he admitted. "Do you fellows?" None of them did. Then they waited until the others came in from the pool. But none of them knew what city had the honor to shelter the Blinders' agency. "I'll write the note, anyway," Dick insisted. "If I can't do better, I'll put the address as simply the United States, with a request on the envelope for the post-office people to find the right city and deliver the letter." "Go ahead with the letter," urged Tom. "After dinner I'll walk over to Five Corners and mail the letter. Incidentally, I'll make inquiries over there and see whether anyone knows the city in which the Blinders' crowd has its headquarters." So Dick wrote the letter, while others were preparing the noon meal. At one o'clock in the afternoon Tom started, on his round-trip tramp of twenty-two miles. "A trip like that will take the place of training for one half day," Reade explained. Hazelton offered to go with him, but Tom declined on the ground that he could get over ground faster without Harry. It was an hour after dark when Reade returned that night, hot, tired, dusty and hungry. But he had found the correct address of the agency and the letter had started on its journey. "Your supper is all ready," Dick announced. "And I'm ready to meet any supper more than half way," Reade retorted. "Just a minute, until I wash up." The other five boys sat and chatted by the table while Tom ate. "Dan, won't you throw a lot more wood on the fire?" asked Dick, as the meal came to a close. "We ought to have the camp better lighted than this." Greg sprang to help Dalzell. Soon the flames leaped up, throwing their ruddy, cheerful glow over the camp and making dancing shadows beyond under the trees. While they were still chatting over the day's doings, steps were heard, followed by the arrival in camp of two rough-looking, stern-faced men. Dave Darrin sprang to pick up a club. "You boys haven't been doing anything wrong, have you?" questioned one of the men, with a trace of a smile. "Of course not," Dick indignantly replied. "Then you needn't be afraid of us, though I admit that we do look rough," answered the same man, displaying a badge. "We're officers of the law." "What can we do for you, sir?" Prescott inquired more respectfully. "Do you boys know anything about Tag Mosher?" demanded the same speaker. "Son of Bill Mosher?" Dick counter-queried. "The same. Know anything about him?" "Nothing, except that he bothered us a good deal when we were first camped here," Prescott replied. "Do you know him by sight, then?" "We all do." "When was Tag here last?" pressed the officer. "About three days ago," Dick answered. "He stole quite a bit of our food supply." "That's an old trick of that young tough," rejoined the deputy sheriff. "That's how the boy got the nickname of 'tag.' He won't work, and lives on other people's work. Anything that he can say 'tag' to he thinks belongs to him." "Then, in other words, sir," asked Dave Darrin, "Tag Mosher is just a plain thief?" "A good deal that way," replied the deputy. "But with this difference: Up to date Tag never stole anything except what he needed at the moment for his own comfort. He never robbed people to enrich himself, but just to save himself the trouble of working. Now, however, we've a more serious charge against him." "What?" asked Dick, "I don't know whether the courts will call it felonious assault," replied the deputy. "But Tag stole two chickens out of the chicken coop of Henry Leigh, a new farmer in these parts. Leigh trailed Tag to the woods and found him cooking the chickens. Leigh tried to grab Tag, but Tag caught up a big stone and just slammed it against Leigh's head. Leigh is now in bed at home, with a fractured skull, and likely to die. He described Tag to us, and we're after him. The county has put a reward of two hundred and fifty dollars on Tag's head. After we've come up with him I guess it will be many a year before Tag Mosher will have a chance to do any more stealing or fighting. But if you haven't seen him here in three days we may as well be moving on. Thank you. Of course, if you see Tag, you won't tell him anything about our being here?" "Certainly not, sir," Dick answered. "By the way, do you want any help?" "Meaning some of you boys?" asked the deputy. "Some of us will help you, if we can," Dick assured him. "How many?" "We ought to leave half our number to guard the camp, for Tag may show up here and wreck things. Three of us can go with you." "You may run into some ugly fighting, if you go with us," warned the deputy. "Tag Mosher is no coward!" "We're not afraid of fighting, when we're in the right," Prescott replied promptly. "Besides, we've got a grudge of our own against Tag Mosher, anyway," Dave said. "Not a grudge, I hope," Dick rebuked his chum. "But we'll stand by to help the law, if we get a chance." "I reckon maybe we could use three of you," meditated the deputy aloud. "Boys can beat up woods as well as men. But we may not be able to get you back here before to-morrow noon. "That will be all right," Dick assured him. "Dave and Greg, you'll join me in going with the officers, won't you?" Darry and Holmes both assented eagerly. "If you've any extra grub, then, put it up and come along," urged the deputy. "There's room for five in the automobile we're using." "How did you men know that we were here?" Reade inquired, while Dick and Greg made haste to get food together for the trip. "Saw your campfire," replied the deputy laconically. "We didn't believe Tag would build such a large fire, but we took a chance and looked in. If you haven't anything else to do, young Long-legs, you might pick out three stout clubs for your friends." Laughing good-naturedly at the nickname, Tom bestirred himself. Within three minutes all was ready. Dick, Dave and Greg stepped away after the officers. Not far away was the road, where the automobile stood with the engine running. "Does Tag know how to run a car?" Prescott inquired. "Don't know," replied the deputy. "If he does, and had happened to be about, he could have taken your car in good shape," smiled Dick. "True," nodded the officer, "but there were only two of us, and nabbing Tag Mosher is two men's work." "I ought to know that," laughed Dick. "He gave me a stiff enough beating." "Here is where you can even the score," laughed Dave grimly. "I don't want to even any score," replied Prescott gravely. "I'm sorry for the fellow, especially when he was so close to a chance to turn about and make something of himself." "Do you mean to say that you don't hold even a bit of a grudge for that severe beating you got?" demanded Darry wonderingly. "Of course I don't," Dick retorted. "When two fellows fight one of them must receive a beating---that's the sporting chance. All my feelings for Tag are of sympathy." "Not enough so you'd let him get away, if you met him?" put in the deputy quickly. "Of course, not, sir," Dick answered quickly flushing. "That would be as much as to say that I'm a bad citizen. If I find Tag I'll do my best to hold him until help comes. You may be sure of that." "Then get into the car," ordered the deputy briefly. "The back part of the car is for you youngsters. That reminds me. We don't know each other's names. Mine's Simmons." The other deputy's name proved to be Valden. The boys quickly introduced themselves. Away went the car, over the rough roads. To avoid sending warning too far ahead the lights were turned low. On account of the condition of this rough forest road the speed was slow. "If Tag hasn't been to your camp within three nights," said Mr. Simmons, leaning back while Mr. Valden ran the car, "then it's because he isn't in this neighborhood. So we'll travel on a few miles before we stop to do any real searching." "I don't understand how you can expect to find anyone out here in the night time," Dick observed. "I've some plans in my mind," was all the explanation Simmons offered. When the road became a little better, Valden put on a bit more speed. "Better slow down," advised Simmons presently. "There's a bridge ahead that isn't any, too strong." That bridge was closer than the deputy thought. Just then the automobile top brushed heavily against foliage in making a wooded turn in the road. "There's the bridge!" yelled Simmons almost excitedly. "Slow down---stop!" Valden tried to obey, but the bridge was altogether too close for stopping in time. Out over the planks ran the car. R-r-rip! Crash! Some of the boards were already missing from the rude bridge. Others gave way almost like paper. Down through the structure fell the car, then landed with a splash, overturning to the accompaniment of cries of fright and of pain from its occupants. _ |
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