"That's right," Dick agreed, swinging the club, as the other rose
to a sitting posture. "Sit up, but don't try to get up any farther
unless you want to feel this stake, which is tougher than those
other steaks!"
Prescott kept nimbly out of reach of the other's arms, though
he took pains to keep himself where he could jump in with a handy
blow at need.
"Now," remarked the high school boy, "you are getting an idea
as to who's boss."
"Well, what do you want?" asked the other sullenly. He had already
drawn down a tattered, battered old cap so that it screened his
face.
"I want to get a better look at you," Prescott replied. "I want
to be able to know you anywhere. Tan colored woollen shirt; brown
corduroy trousers; low-cut black shoes; cap defies description.
Now, let me see your face."
With that Dick bent quickly, picking up an oil-soaked bunch of
faggots that he had prepared before the others had turned in for
the night and dropped them upon the campfire.
Like a flash he was back, close to the stranger. "Don't you dare
try to get up!" Dick threatened, swinging the club.
"Hit me, if you dare!" leered the other. "I'm going to get upright
now!"
With that he made a lurching move forward.
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