For ten minutes or longer he moved thus down the road.
"I'd better be getting back soon, I guess," he mused, "or I may
find it too much of a job."
Looking back, as he turned, he could just make out the glow of
the fire, very dim, indeed, from where he stood.
"I've got a beacon," smiled Dick, as he rested against a tree
trunk just off the road. He was about to take a step when a figure
glided stealthily by.
"By all that's astonishing, it's Tag Mosher!" Prescott gasped.
He clutched at the tree trunk again, watching, for Tag had halted
and appeared to be peering hard through the foliage at the fire
some distance away.
"I wouldn't want him to find me, now!" thought Dick, a cold chill
running over him at the thought of Tag's desperate savagery.
But at that moment Prescott accidentally made a sound, which,
slight though it was, caught young Mosher's ear.
In a twinkling Tag wheeled about, listening, peering. Then, straight
toward Prescott he came.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" demanded young Mosher harshly.
"Yes," Prescott admitted, speaking as steadily as he could, though
his heart sank for the moment. He knew that Tag would have time
to give him a beating that would be doubly severe in his present
condition of weakness and pain.
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