"TAG" IS THE GAME---TAG MOSHER!
"Now, come in with the sprint!" Dick sang out to Hazelton.
"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.