Chapter II: Part 2

"There's _one_ party we can expect--is that your idea, Harry?" drawled the languid fellow.

"You get me, Horrors. Kingdon and his gang."

"Whoo!" puffed Pudge. "That couldn't be them in the cat?"

"It might," Ben Comas said in evident gloom.

"Those fellows aren't cannibals, I suppose?" proposed the laughing Pence.

"Supposin' Enos Quibb shows up again?" retorted Ben. "Then we _will_ be in a pickle."

"Bah! you're a reg'lar grumbler, Ben," scoffed Kirby.

"Well, if it's those Walcott Hall fellows out there----"

"If anybody's out there," drawled Pence. "Let's wait till daylight before worrying over that. Your lead, Pudge."

At that moment Rex was startled--if those under the canvas were not--by a half smothered cry from the other side of the tent, and the fall of a heavy body.

"Ugh!" was expelled from the lungs of the victim of this accident, and Rex knew he must have fallen over a guy rope. He darted swiftly around the lighted tent, hearing a sibilant "Sh!" from within as the quartette forgot their cards to listen. Rex was convinced that he knew the meaning of the disturbance--and who caused it; but before spying the victim of the accident he saw the fly of the second tent parted, and a crouching figure darted out.

There was a larger party than he supposed in this encampment. In another minute the whole crowd would be in action.

"Hey, Mid!" hissed Rex.

He got no reply from his friend, but the individual from the second tent turned as quick as a flash and sprang to tackle him. The charge was so unexpected that Rex went down under the weight of his silent opponent. Whoever the fellow was he didn't shout for help.

Rex twisted and heaved, using every wrestling trick he knew to break the hold of his antagonist. It was like a band of steel about his middle. Rex was too plucky himself, however, to call again for his friend, as long as this stranger fought the battle in silence.

They rolled over and over upon the saturated ground. Rex realized that there was confusion inside the lighted tent. The cardplayers had jumped up and were stumbling over each other to get outside and investigate the disturbance.

"Whole pack will be on me in a minute!" thought the Walcott Hall youth, and the idea stirred him to additional effort.

He managed to get a grip on the other fellow's shoulders, and held him off. His thumbs sought the bunch of muscles and nerves at the joint of the upper arm and shoulder. Pressure here brought a pained grunt from his victim's lips.

His grip on Kingdon relaxed. Slippery as an eel in his bathing suit, the latter wriggled free, rolled over, and leaped to his feet.

Between him and the lighted tent loomed suddenly an unmistakably lanky figure. "Hold 'em in the tent, Jawn," Rex panted, "till I find out what sort of a thing this is that grabbed me. It strikes me it's deaf and dumb."

"Right-o!" agreed the big fellow, and a sudden _smack_ upon the wet canvas, and a wild roar inside, betrayed the collision of the spare tent stake in Midkiff's hands athwart the parting fly of the main tent.

"Ow! Let us out!" yelled the beleaguered boys as Midkiff slammed the canvas curtain a second time with his weapon.

"Joe! Joe Bootleg!" shrieked Ben Comas.

The fellow who had tackled Rex had scrambled to his feet. The Walcott boy cried: "Believe I'm favored with the attention of Mr. Shoetop--or whatever he's called. Ah! Would ye?"

He parried a swing dealt at him, and the next instant he and the silent Indian were clinched again.

"Want--help?" panted Midkiff, who had brought on all this trouble by disobeying Kingdon's order.

"No!" was expelled from Rex's lips. "I'm--going--to take--this--Boot--let apart--and see how it's made. Ah! would ye?"

His apparel did not gain Rex so much advantage after all. Joe had gone to bed with his boots on. Now he unceremoniously trampled on the other's bare feet. Rex could not entirely repress a cry of pain, and for the second time the Indian uttered a sound. He laughed.

If anything was needed to make Kingdon fighting mad, it was that. He broke away from the Indian, dancing back a pace or two. As Joe Bootleg came at him again, Rex sent in a quick right drive to the point of the other's chin.

His antagonist went to the earth, and lay there.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*GETTING BACK TO THE BOAT.*

At another time Rex Kingdon would have been more careful about striking such a blow with his bare fist, no matter how angry he might have been with his opponent, for there is danger of cracking a knuckle when one's hand is ungloved.

The foot Joe Bootleg had trampled on, hurt him cruelly, however; he saw, too, that the Indian meant to repeat his unfair tactics. So it was "down and out" for the Indian, and the Walcott youth sprang away.

"Run, Mid!" he hissed. "This bunch is getting lively. There!"

Inside the tent somebody suddenly yelled: "That's right, Horrors! Slit up the back canvas. We'll show 'em!"

"They know there are only two of us, I guess," said Midkiff. "But don't you hate to show the white feather?"

"Too dark right now for anybody to see whether our plumage is white or some other color," chuckled Rex. "The race is not always to the swift or the battle to the strong."

"Huh!" grunted his friend. "Where's that fellow who downed you?"

"I downed him. But he's coming back to life again," Rex said, having gone back for another look at the dazed Indian boy to make sure. "Whew! He's strong, that chap. But he don't know much about using his fists. Here they come! Scoot!"

He picked up the flash-lamp he had dropped in the fracas, and set the pace down the hill. But he hobbled, and Midkiff immediately noticed his chum's lameness, although they were out of the radiance of the lighted tent in half a minute.

"That fellow hurt you, Rex," exclaimed the big chap.

"Maybe I didn't hurt him!" returned the other lightly. "Drop over this bank and get under cover. The hounds will scent the trail in a minute."

Midkiff did not like to run. That wasn't his way when he got into a row. But Rex was chuckling in spite of the pain he suffered.

"I believe we could have licked 'em if we had stayed," growled the big fellow.

"Doubtless, Jawn. You could go out and slay a host of the Philistines with a jawbone----"

"The knuckle bones are good enough for me," put in his friend, still disgruntled. "You always have all the luck, Rex. You're the only one who struck a blow."

"How about you hammering on that canvas?" demanded Kingdon.

"With your fist, I mean."

"True. And I'm not so happy over that," muttered the other.

They had scrambled down upon a narrow strip of beach under the high bank. This was not the spot where they had landed, as Kingdon well knew.

They hobbled along the beach where it was hard going, and Midkiff stepped on a pebble that gave him a pretty stone bruise.

"Let's take to the water," the big fellow proposed. "This is no fun."

"Right! It doesn't tickle one's funny-bone to any extensive degree," rejoined his friend. "But do you know where the _Spoondrift_ is?"

"Of course not. That's up to you."

"Thanks. Well, _I_ don't know its location--not from here. We've got to get around to that place where we landed. I marked that."

"Come on----" Midkiff choked his words short as there came a shout over their heads.

"This way, Horrors!" yelled the voice of the chap named Kirby. "They came this way. I heard 'em then."

"Heard 'em what--splashing? They came in a boat--if they didn't fly to the island," was the reply.

"Heard 'em talking," Kirby called back.

The two Walcott Hall youths had seized each other's hand simultaneously, warning each other to silence. Now Kingdon stooped, secured a branch upon which he had stepped the moment before, and began to splash in the water with it.

"Sh, Clumsy!" gasped Midkiff, in a panic. "Want to bring the whole gang down upon us?"

Rex was splashing the water in quick, but rhythmic time. One of the fellows on the bank above cried out:

"They've got a rowboat--they're getting away in it."

"Then it can't be that crew from the cat," retorted the languid voice of the one called Horrors. "There was no tender trailing her."

"Come on!" whispered Rex to his companion. "Let 'em stand there and argue about it."

The two friends went hurriedly on along the beach, taking care how they stepped. When they were far enough away so that the voices of the campers were merely murmurs in the fog and rain, the big fellow said admiringly:

"Cute trick, Rex. They still believe we are at sea."

"Whereas they are at sea," chuckled his friend.

"What are we going to do about them in the morning? Reckon they're a gang of toughs, eh?"

"Just about as tough as you and Red are," returned Rex. "They're only boys, same as ourselves."

"That was no boy you were walloping," exclaimed Midkiff.

"Wasn't much more, I guess. One of these tame Indians that hire out for camp work to summer parties. Joe Bootleg is a famous name."

"Huh?"

"Maine is full of 'em. 'Bootleggers,'" Rex chuckled. "The decent majority are fighting them all the time."

"So you had to do your share?" grinned Midkiff.

"He's strong as a bull, and as ugly. Sorry I had a muss with him," Rex Kingdon confessed. "These people with Indian blood in their veins aren't like white folks. They're revengeful and unforgiving. Have to watch out for Joe Bootleg."

"Pshaw! I wouldn't lose any sleep over it," Midkiff said. "These fellows will have to get off the island. That's plain."

"Not as plain as the nose on your face, Jawn," chuckled Rex.

"We're not going to let them have the island and we go somewhere else?" demanded the big fellow in surprise.

"Hardly."

"Going to fight 'em, then?"

"Arbitrate. Maybe. Oh! Great smoke!"

Suddenly he had tripped over something and splashed on hands and knees into shallow water. It was as dark as a pocket down there under the bank.

"Rope," explained Midkiff, having caught hold of it.

"Don't tell me!" murmured Rex, touching his shin tenderly. "It raked me up and down. Lost some peeling that time, I did!"

"It's hitched to a boat," whispered Midkiff.

"That's what I thought," grunted Rex. "Haul her in. Reckon we've found something now."

"Give us a flash of your lamp, Rex," begged the other. "Let's see what sort of a tub this is."

The other did so, and the bow of a heavy canoe was revealed.

"There's another," Kingdon exclaimed under his breath. "Two-paddle boats, each. Bet that's what these fellows came in. They must have hired a dory to bring over their camp stuff."

"Well, come on!" urged his friend. "Let's get back to our own boat. What's the good of fooling here? What are you doing, Rex? Untying that canoe?"

"Untie the other, Buddie," whispered Rex. "And don't raise your voice again. You'll have that bunch down here."

"Going to set them adrift? Then they can't get away if they want to," grumbled Midkiff, yet obeying the other's command. "What's the idea?"

"Give me the other rope. Now into the water with you, Jawn. We're going to coax these away--not set them adrift."

"Steal 'em?" gasped Midkiff.

"Don't use such rude language," advised his friend. "Hypothecate--embezzling--spoliation--my boy! There are lots nicer terms than the vulgar 'stealing.'"

"Huh!" grunted Midkiff. "They all lead to the same old vulgar jail."

Rex chuckled. Both waded in to shoulder depth. Midkiff said, shortly: "Where are the paddles?"

"Ashore, I should hope. Those chaps couldn't have been foolish enough to leave 'em in the canoes. Come on! We'll tow 'em out to the _Spoondrift_. We don't need paddles."

"Don't see what good it's going to do us," grumbled his friend.

"How would you feel yourself if you were stuck on that island without any means of getting off?"

"Huh?"

"Think it over. Those chaps might object to our landing there in the morning--and there's sure as many of them as there is of us."

"But we got a right there, haven't we?" demanded Midkiff, excitedly. "Can't we go to the authorities?"

"You don't mean that, Jawn," drawled Rex. "You wouldn't be a tattle-tale?"

"Aw----"

"We'll arbitrate, just as I said," chuckled Rex. "They'll be willing to concede several things---perhaps--for the sake of getting these canoes back. Anyway, we'll wait and see."

"Oh!"

"Come on, now, and swim. The cat's just off yonder. Push along, Jawn."

"But I don't get you," sputtered his friend. "Why do you want to mix it up with these fellows at all?"

"Maybe for instance," laughed Rex. He did not tell Midkiff that he suspected the party encamped on Storm Island was actually expecting the arrival of the crowd from Walcott Hall.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*ON THE VERGE OF SOMETHING.*

Through the smother of fine rain the mast and rigging of the _Spoondrift_ loomed above the two swimmers. Midkiff observed, as he caught the anchor cable:

"Must be the boys are asleep. Anybody could steal 'em."

"What for?" chuckled Rex. "Nobody'd want to kidnap this bunch. Tie that painter securely, old man. We don't want to lose the canoes."

"Going to keep watch?" asked Midkiff as they swung over the catboat's rail.

"For what?"

"Those fellows over there may have more boats."

"Not likely. They'd have 'em all moored at one point--below their camp. No. We've appropriated all their means of water locomotion."

"Like to know what good it's going to do?" was Midkiff's characteristic grumble.

"Don't let it worry you, Jawn. Come on down and dry off--and see if the others have left us room to stretch out for a sleep. 'Sleep, baby, sleep! Close your sweet eyes!'"

"Huh!" grunted Midkiff again; but he went to bed without further argument.

Rolling mists masked island and sound at daybreak; the crew of the catboat was astir, however, without anybody having rung the rising bell. Four of the Walcott Hall crowd hopped into their bathing suits and prepared for the early plunge.

"This beats waiting in turn at the showers. What say?" cried Red Phillips, at the rail. "Hey! where's Peewee?"

"Why, the little fox!" said Cloudman, sticking his head down the hatchway. "He's rolled up tight in his blanket."

"Oh! Oh!" gasped the auburn-haired youth. "Say not so! Trying to grab another nap, is he?"

"It shouldn't be. Bad for children to sleep too long," the Westerner said.

"Bad? It's awful! Come on! We've got to save him from the effects of such a course."

Rex and Midkiff were struggling to get into their own wet suits, so were behind the others. But little Hicks was not allowed to be last into the rather chilly sound. Red and Applejack brought him on deck in his shirt, struggling and sputtering.

"Lemme go! Rex! King! Middy, old boy! Give a hand!"

"Can't," chuckled Kingdon. "Both of 'em's busy."

"You go fish," growled Midkiff. "I'd like to see you get started early in the morning for once. You're the laziest young one I ever saw."

"One!" sing-songed Red, he and the Colorado youth swinging the squalling Peewee. "Two! Three--and over!"

They chucked him, feet foremost, over the side. Peewee sank like a plummet, his nightshirt floating up around his neck.

"That shirt will strangle him," suggested Rex, with some seriousness. "He can't swim in a thing like that."

"Then why doesn't he wear pajamas, like a sane male human being?" growled Red Phillips.

"Cause his mother won't make 'em for him. And he's just come from home with a new outfit. Say, you murderers, go after him!"

Thus adjured, both Red and Cloudman went overboard, each in his own way. Red made a long, graceful dive; the Colorado youth went in like a frog.

It was a fact that some seconds passed and Peewee Hicks did not come up. Midkiff stared over the rail, with his shirt half on, growling:

"What's the matter with those microbes? Can't they have a little fun without drowning the child? Red Phillips is as gentle as a wild dog, and Cloudman's no better----"

Phillips' hectic thatch shot to the surface. He rose breast high, dashed the water from his eyes, and squawked:

"Where is he?"

"Hasn't come up!" roared Midkiff. "He's tangled up in that nightshirt somewhere down there."

Red disappeared, and John wrenched his way into the clinging woolen upper half of his bathing suit. Cloudman's red face appeared. He blew like a whale.

"Didn't the kid come up, fellers?" he gasped, having cleared his mouth of water.

"No. He's down there. Get after him!" commanded Midkiff, preparing to throw himself over the boat's side.

A mellow chuckle from behind him made the big fellow pause. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering what Rex Kingdon found to laugh about in this serious moment. There were two hands clinging to the port rail, and the grinning face of Peewee was in sight above it, as he hung on. He had dived under the catboat's keel, and was perfectly safe while Red and Cloudman combed the depths on the other side.

"Let 'em look," he begged. "Big loafers! Took two of 'em to throw me in, at that."

This amused Kingdon much more than it did his roommate. Midkiff glowered at the shrewd face of the youngster.

Up came Red again, evidently greatly excited. He wanted to know, choking and sputtering:

"Hasn't he come up at all? What's the matter with him? Is he made of lead? That boy ought to be an anchor; he'd never drag on any kind of a bottom----"

Cloudman shot to the surface. He wasn't as good a swimmer as Red, and he was about all in.

"I--I can't find him!" he chattered. "Got to get aboard and get my wind. Hey! why ain't you fellows doing something?"

"We are," said Rex, broadly smiling. "We're crying over your distress. Come on in and eat an apple, Cloudman." With one hand he reached for Hicks and hauled him over the rail by his wet shirt.

Hicks declared himself satisfied with his temporary bath. In fact, a single plunge seemed about all any of the party cared for, the water being several degrees cooler than the inland streams and lakes with which the boys were familiar, as well as the tempered needle-showers of the Walcott Gym.

Before they were dressed the sun broke through the mist, and then they saw something that was worth looking at--Storm Island glorified by the morning sun. It blazed like a green jewel, surrounded by the rolling sea fog--the upper reaches of the isle at first revealed, and then, gradually, all the wooded northern shore down to the lapping little waves that kissed it.

"Some ugly spot, old man!" Red said, addressing Kingdon. "You certainly pick lemons!"

"Purty as a little red wagon with yellow wheels," announced Cloudman.

"I wish I was an artist," murmured Peewee.

Midkiff had nothing to say until the mists were dissipated sufficiently to reveal the spot where he and Rex had had their nocturnal adventure. Then he said, grumpily enough:

"They're there yet, Rex."

The two tents were plainly visible from the _Spoondrift_.

"Well, you wise owl!" was the polite response. "How'd you think they'd leave? Swim?"

At that moment Peewee spied the two canoes moored to the _Spoondrift's_ stern. The excitement attending the brief morning bath had quite dimmed the eyes of those of the crowd who had not been ashore.

"Where'd they come from?" Hicks wanted to know. "You fellows bring 'em out last night? What did you find on that island, anyway?"

Cloudman had spied the tents as well. He drawled: "Guess there's somebody ahead of us. Is that what took you and Midkiff ashore?"

"Who are those fellows, Rex?" demanded Red Phillips. "And how did you clutch on to their canoes? Don't you know

'It is a sin
To steal a pin;
It is a greater
To steal a "tater"'?"

"Maybe those fellows stole the canoes first," muttered Midkiff.

"Hustle up the breakfast, Cloudman," Rex commanded. "And I'll tell you all our tale of woe. It's some tale, too. How's your stone-bruise, Jawn?"

"About the same as your scraped shin, I reckon; and your foot. Why, that's badly bruised, Rex," he added, with sudden commiseration, as he saw how tenderly the skipper of the _Spoondrift_ was bathing his injured foot with arnica.

"Goodness gracious! Yes!" barked Rex. "Hospital job, very likely. That Indian has a foot like an elephant's."

"Vicious scoundrel," acclaimed his friend.

"He's a hard hitter--with his feet. Perhaps the rest of them are when they're not hived up in a tent."

"We'd better sail over to that Blackport place and get a constable," the older boy suggested. "Those chaps are trespassers, all right."

"Leave it to yours truly," Rex said, putting on his canvas shoe with care.

"What's your scheme?"

"Haven't any. I'll roll my sleeves up to prove my innocence," returned Rex. "But I am awfully curious."

"I believe, on my soul," said Midkiff with vigor, "that you'd rather get into trouble than not."

"No, I like to get out of it," confessed Rex. "Of course, a fellow can't slip out of a row unless he first gets into it. See?"

"Sounds foolish," declared the older fellow. "That's because you don't know all the facts in these premises, as old Yad would say. Wait till we're hitting the eats, then I'll talk. Don't that smell good?"

For some minutes the sputtering of pork, frying out in the pan, had come from below. Now the fragrance of frying fish was wafted to the nostrils of those in the cockpit. Cloudman and Peewee were busy with the breakfast. Red came up, fully dressed, and began to spy out the encampment and its surroundings through a pair of opera glasses.

"What do you see, Father William?" queried Rex.

"Not much," grunted Phillips.

"They must be sleeping late after our call last night," muttered Midkiff.

"Sleep? They must be dead," said the red-haired youth. "What do you know about fellows camping out, sleeping till this time of day?"

"They are rich. Don't have to work," said Cloudman, coming up to breathe.

"Say, King," little Hicks begged to know, "did you and Mid call on those chaps last night? I suppose they gave you the canoes?"

"Sure," Red grumbled. "Bet there was a pretty mess--and the rest of us out of it."

"You could have my lame foot, for all I care," Rex said sweetly. "Keep your hair on, Reddy. Maybe it isn't as bad as you think. At any rate, I fancy you will be in plenty of time for the next mess--if it comes off."

Cloudman darted down to dish out the first relay of fried soup and potatoes. Hardtack took the place of bread, and the coffee was good. The cowboy had not lived most of his life on the plains for nothing.

"You're a pretty fine cook, Applejack," admitted Rex, beginning on his plateful with gusto.

"Don't jolly me," said the Westerner. "I've pretty near got fed up with _that_. When we get ashore, it's somebody's turn beside mine--don't you forget it."

"Are we going to get ashore--on this island, I mean?" put in Midkiff.

"Come on," Red urged. "Give us the yarn, Rex. Who are those fellows over there?"

"Haven't the first idea--only I got their names down pat. But I never heard of them before, that I know. However, that makes no difference. They know us."

"They do?" exploded Midkiff.

"One-sided introduction, eh?" giggled Peewee.

"At least," explained Kingdon more fully, "they are expecting us on the island. Our coming to camp here is known to them, and they know that they are in for trouble. Of course, the signs along shore would tell them that much, even were they greenhorns from afar."

"What do you know about that?" said Red, scowling.

"We'd better sail over to Blackport and bring the constable," urged the cautious Midkiff.

"Let's go put 'em off, bag and baggage," cried Phillips.

"They can't get off if we don't give 'em back their canoes," cried Peewee. "Hi, King! What do you mean to do?"

Just then, while all eyes were fastened upon the encampment on the shore of Storm Island, the first of the lazy campers appeared from the main tent. He was a tall, black-haired fellow; they could see that easily enough without the use of Red's glasses.

He came down toward the place where the canoes had been moored, wearing a scarlet bathing suit and carrying a towel over his arm. Suddenly he appreciated the fact that the canoes were gone. A glance showed him the catboat with the missing craft tied to her stern.

He turned to shout something to his friends still in the tent. Midkiff muttered:

"Now there'll be a stir!"

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*A BARGAIN IS STRUCK.*

The fellow in the red bathing suit descended to the edge of the water and plunged in without hesitation. Three others came running from the larger tent--a fat chap, a lean one, and the third almost as stocky as Red Phillips. Rex Kingdon could identify them all by what he had heard the night before.

After a minute a fifth youth appeared from the smaller tent, and by his look and dress Rex knew this last must be the Joe Bootleg with whom he had had the struggle.

"Five of 'em," said Peewee. "Even Stephen."

"We ought to be able to hold our own with that crowd," Red murmured.

"You can have my share of the Indian, Red," Kingdon drawled.

"Well, what are you going to do?" demanded Midkiff.

Only the tall fellow of the party of campers ventured into the water. The others dressed hastily, chattering excitedly the while. The tall fellow went ashore, stripped, rubbed himself down, and got into his own clothes leisurely.

"Well set up lad, that," Phillips said to Rex, admiringly. "He looks about your build, Beauty. Made of whipcord and wire cable, too. Notice those biceps when he put on his shirt?"

Red had been looking through the glasses, and forgot that the rest were not eagle-eyed. Hicks chuckled:

"If it comes to a rough-and-tumble, I choose the fat one for my meat. He must be so clumsy he can't get out of the way of his own feet."

"Always looking for the easy work, infant," said Rex. "Go wash up the dishes; that's your job. We'll up anchor and----"

"Make sail for Blackport?" put in Midkiff.

"Like fun we will!" cried Phillips. "Aren't going to turn tail and run from those chaps, are you, Rex?"

"Guess we'd better have a pow-wow first," admitted Kingdon. "Time enough to shout for help when we find we need it."

"I wouldn't say a word to them," complained John Midkiff.

"Gentle lamb, Jawn is," drawled Kingdon. "_He_ doesn't like a fuss, of course--oh, no!"

"Not for the sake of the fuss, as you and Red do," snapped Midkiff. "You two are always hunting trouble."

They paid little attention to Midkiff's complaints. The anchor was dragged over the bows. The sail was hoisted. It filled, and the _Spoondrift_ began to move. She was not a graceful craft, but she slid through the water rapidly. The painters of the canoes tautened and they hobbled along astern. Rex shortened the line of one so that they would not bump and damage each other. He steered the cat for the deep mooring place under the two arching trees below the encampment.

"They chose a pretty place to set up their tents," Peewee said, lying on his stomach and trailing dish after dish overboard to wash them. "Just as pretty places all along the shore here," Rex said. "A hundred parties could easily find room on the island."

Midkiff stared at him. "I know you're getting ready to do something foolish," he declared, sourly.

"I'd hate to have your suspicious nature, Jawn," was the retort as Kingdon skillfully steered the _Spoondrift_ shoreward.

"Hey! What are you doing with our canoes?" was the shouted greeting of the fellow whom Rex suspected was named Ben.

"Why, I declare! are these your boats?" drawled the blond chap. "Don't you think you were mighty careless with them?"

"Now you said a mouthful," barked the belligerent Kirby. "But we didn't know there were thieves about."

"No?"

"We hadn't seen anybody who looked dishonest before," said the good-looking, black-haired fellow they called Horrors, as Red Phillips let out the sheet at a gesture from Rex and the flapping sail came down on the run.

"What's the matter?" squealed little Hicks in reply to the last speech. "Did you all forget to bring your pocket mirrors?"

"You come ashore here, you little chipmunk," blustered Ben Comas, "and I'll show you something. It won't be in a looking-glass, either."

"Naughty! Naughty!" laughed Kingdon. "Don't threaten; it isn't nice. Drop the anchor again, Jawn. You fellows let me do a little of the talking, will you?"

"Aw, well----" began Hicks. But Cloudman reached for him and laid him carefully on his back.

"Hush up, infant!" the Westerner advised. "We can't hear ourselves think for your chatter."

"Going to give us back our canoes?" shouted Kirby.

"For a price," Kingdon coolly told him. "Of course, you don't expect to get anything for nothing? It isn't done, my boy; it isn't done."

Before Harry Kirby could sputter again, the tall, dark fellow interfered. The catboat now swung so near the shore on the morning tide that a conversational tone between the two parties was all that was necessary.

"I say," Horace Pence said, "you're Rex Kingdon, aren't you?"

"Bull's-eye," admitted the blond youth lazily. "But I haven't the pleasure, have I?"

"That makes no difference. I suppose it was you who came ashore here last night?"

"Seems to me I remember something like that," admitted Rex suddenly a-smile. He saw the Indian behind the group of other boys, and the smile was for him. But Joe Bootleg did not respond; only stared down at his erstwhile antagonist threateningly.

"What do you want here at Storm Island, anyway?" demanded Pence boldly.

"You ought to go ashore and tell him, Rex," declared Red Phillips in disgust. "The gall of him!"

"We ought to go to Blackport and get a constable to put the whole gang off the island," added Midkiff.

"Why be childish?" said Rex. "I rather like our neighbor with the black eyebrows."

"Well?" demanded Pence. "Lost your voice?"

"Not any," quoth Kingdon. "Was just wondering how much you fellows would be willing to pay for your canoes? We might keep 'em, you know."

"You'd better not!" yelled Ben Comas, red in the face and shaking his fist at the catboat's crew.

"My father----"

"Drop it!" growled Kirby, yet loud enough for the Walcott Hall boys to hear. "If your father knew where you were----"

"They're a bunch of thieves," declared Ben, just as wildly. "Ain't they, Pudge?"

The fat boy kept discreetly silent. The black-haired youth said:

"Stop your yipping, you fellows, and let somebody talk sense. Hey, Kingdon! You needn't think you've got us caged here for the rest of the summer. We could hail a fishing party before the day's over, and get a boat from Blackport. Don't fool yourself."

"Got it all planned out, haven't you?" said Cloudman.

Rex made a gesture to quiet Applejack, and said:

"I have an idea you don't care to stir up any inquiry at the port. Am I right? Let's settle this between ourselves--right in the bosom of the family, as it were. What do you say?"

"Shoot!" said Pence. "Let's have your idea."

"We give up the canoes. You let us land and set up our camp, and let us alone. Is it understood?" asked Rex with more seriousness.

The expressions on the faces of the fat fellow, Ben, and Kirby showed relief. Horace Pence said:

"It's a bargain. The island's big enough."

"All agreed?" drawled Rex.

"I think we are," Kirby said.

"Sure!" chimed in Ben and Pudge MacComber. Yet the former murmured: "There's something up his sleeve. There must be!" Pudge looked doubtful, too. Joe Bootleg scowled in the background, saying nothing.

"Hope you may die, cross your heart, and all the rest of it," said Rex, cheerfully. "I put you all on honor. It may be an awful strain; but they say a singed cat is often better than it looks. We're to camp where we choose, and let you alone. You fellows ditto with us. Is it agreed?"

"Come along," invited the black-haired chap. "You needn't waste so much breath over it."

Rex looked inquiringly at the others. Kirby, Ben and Pudge nodded. But it was noticeable that the Indian youth made no sign of acquiescence.

*CHAPTER IX.*

*A CHALLENGE.*

They chose a pretty cove, half way along the northern shore of the island, where there was a little beach but where the water deepened quickly so that the _Spoondrift_ could be moored inshore. With her centerboard raised, her draught was small.

"We should have a tender, King, just as I said," Red Phillips declared. "What's the good of a fellow getting wet to his waist every time he wants to 'board ship?"

"Hold your horses, you scarlet pimpernel," requested Rex. "Maybe this isn't the only water vehicle we'll have. The summer's young yet."

"And you're fresh," growled Red. "Pimpernel, indeed! I'm a healthy looking roadside flower."

"We might have kept one of those canoes," suggested Peewee, with one of his impish grins.

"I don't want anything to do with them or their canoes," Midkiff announced. "I've a mighty poor opinion of that gang."

"Here, too," said Red. "I've a notion they're not going to be good neighbors."

"They promised," Hicks observed seriously.

"What's a promise to fellows like them?" growled he of the auburn hair.

"What do you know about them, Reddy?" Kingdon asked. "Jumping at conclusions, aren't you?"

"If a dog shows his teeth I take it for granted he can bite," was the prompt reply. "I don't have to go up to him and put my hand in his mouth to make sure."

"True, true, Carrots. And quite philosophical. You are improving."

Suddenly, Cloudman appeared from the wood that covered the heights of the island behind the camping place. He came scrambling down toward the tent that had already been set up and secured.

"Here comes the P.L.," said Phillips, squinting up at the lank Western youth.

"What's that?" asked Midkiff. "'P.L.'--pretty lucky? He's missed most of the work."

"Principal Loafer," explained Red. "And my hands are sore tugging at those guy-ropes."

"You said something," agreed Hicks. "Cloudman's a regular pet, isn't he? He's too strong for work."

"He's got a bad wing, and you know it," Kingdon put in admonishingly. "Don't want him to make it worse. He's had a lame arm ever since that chap from Winchester--the one that nicked Henderson's brother for his roll--hit Cloud with a club. I told him to go easy."

"How about me?" growled Midkiff. "That same fellow took a twist at my arm, too. If he'd been trying to break up our nine so Winchester could win the pennant, that scoundrel couldn't have done better."

"But you showed 'em, Middy, in the last game--didn't he, fellows?" cried Peewee. "You put the starch into those last few innings, believe me!"

"And near ruined your arm," said Kingdon, eyeing his roommate with lazy pride. "I've got a couple of cripples on my hands. That's why I was particularly anxious for you and Applejack to come on this cruise, Midkiff."

"How's that?" asked the Colorado lad, landing suddenly with a crash beside them.

"Want you both to get into A-1 shape by fall. We'll have a series to play off in September and October, and you two fellows must be able to do your very best on the mound."

"How 'bout Henderson?"

"Hen's promised to keep in trim, too. Walcott is mighty weak in its pitching staff. We've got three--three, mind you! And we ought to have half a dozen good twirlers."

"Don't you suppose any of those fellows Stanley Downs was nursing along on the scrub nines will develop, Rex?" Red Phillips asked anxiously.

His place was fixed in the infield, but Red was thoroughly loyal to old Walcott. Indeed, it had been his scouting for athletic material that had brought Rex Kingdon to the school.

"About as much chance of the coach developing a comer out of that bunch as you have of developing a love for mathematics, Sunset," responded Rex.

"There isn't a natural born pitcher among 'em, and if there's no natural talent, what can we expect of the coach? It isn't his fault."

"I'm going right to work with John and Applejack, here. If there's a level spot on this whole island----"

"I've found it," interposed Cloudman.

"Eh?"

"Found just the place. Right on the top of this hill. Big enough for a three-ring circus."

"Fine!" Kingdon exclaimed. "Let's have dinner and a nap, and then go up and look it over. If we could get those chaps over there into it, we could have a half decent ball game--all positions filled and somebody to rap out a few."

"Oh, prunes!" grunted Red. "They don't look as though they could play beanbag."

"Don't you get attached to that idea so that you can't be pried loose, old man," Kingdon advised. "That tall fellow looks good to me."

They had drawn lots and it had fallen to Rex to get dinner, with Phillips to assist. Hunger urged them to prepare a "bounteous repast," but neither of the cooks would ever win a medal from the Association of Chefs, and Peewee so declared.

"If it wasn't for the canned beans, this layout would be a frost," croaked that diminutive critic. "Who couldn't warm over beans? Is that dish going to be about all we get our teeth clamped on this week?"

"I'll try some flapjacks for supper," promised Phillips.

Cloudman grinned. "Ever make any?" he asked.

"No. But we've got a cook at home that makes 'em fine."

"What are you going to make 'em out of?"

"There's a package of flapjack flour. All you got to do is to mix 'em up and fry 'em, I s'pose."

"The directions say, 'Mix with buttermilk,'" chuckled Applejack.

"Huh!"

"Oh, my!" chortled Peewee. "Where you going to get buttermilk, Red?"

"We got canned milk and butter. Can't we combine 'em and make buttermilk? Nothing to it!"

"Listen to that!" cried Midkiff. "This red-headed lunatic will poison us before he gets through."

"Wish we'd hired an Injun to cook for us, same as that other crowd have," Cloudman said.

"Not a bad idea," Peewee agreed patronizingly. "You're pretty near as wild as any Indian, Cloud. I move you be made permanent cook."

"Like fun!" said the Colorado youth. "I cooked all the way over in that boat. No more."

"What do you know about this, Red?" Rex said. "Mutiny, hey?"

"And the worst kind," agreed Phillips. "It's a great deal worse to mutiny against the cook than against the skipper and other officers."

"Here we have both forms of the iniquity. What, ho! call the guard! Sentinels to their places! Let the pork and cabbage fall--I mean the portcullis! I sentence the entire mutinous gang to sharp practice at three o'clock. Let the dishes alone, Red, till later. I hanker for forty winks. Talk as you please, fellows, canned beans are filling."

The island, which had been steaming all the morning after the rain, was beginning to cool off by three o'clock. The five Walcott Hall lads climbed the stiff hill to the hidden lawn, and were delighted with it. It was not long before they discovered that others had been ahead of them.

"Those interlopers, I suppose," Midkiff said, sniffing.

"Here's where they laid out their diamond," said Hicks. "Home plate, first base, third. Yonder's second. Looks like the real thing."

"And the box," Cloudman said, stepping into place, vigorously swinging his arm the while. "Somebody's pitched ball from here, Kingdon, that's sure."

"And now you're going to pitch some," Rex told him, adjusting his mitt. "See if you can put something on it, Wild-and-Woolly."

Cloudman's performance pleased him. Midkiff was taking his turn on the mound when there was a sudden sound of voices in the wood behind the catcher's station. The Walcott lads turned to see the crowd from the other camp appear.

"Oh, see who's here!" murmured Hicks.

The four approached the spot where Midkiff was shooting them over. Kirby swung his catcher's mask and mitt while Pence juggled a couple of balls. Pudge trudged behind the scowling Ben Comas, bearing the bats.

"Hoh!" grunted Ben. "What did I tell you? These prep. school fellows have grabbed our place. You might have known it."

Rex put up his hand to stop Midkiff in the middle of his wind-up, and looked over his shoulder.

"Why don't you keep a dog and let him do the growling for you?" he asked Comas. "Any crime in our tossing a few here? 'Bout the only level spot on the island--what?"

"It's our place," said Ben, weakly.

"I don't suppose you mean to camp here all day?" Pence said lazily. Then to Ben: "There's time enough. Let 'em go ahead with their practice," he added, patronizingly. "Let's see what they can do."

Phillips, who had got up from his seat in the shade, sat down again, with a grunt. Pence threw himself beside the red-haired youth. Midkiff scowled, but took the signal from Kingdon.

"Sure," the latter flung at Pence with a laugh. "There's nothing secret about this warming up. Now, old man, put something on it."

Midkiff whipped in a fast one, but it was wide.

"Very bad," said Horace Pence, pleasantly.

"Rather," agreed Kirby.

"They didn't like that one, Jawn," Rex Kingdon said sadly. "Didn't think so much of it myself. Try again."

In a regular game John Midkiff could stand the chaffing of the enemy pretty well, but the remarks of these strangers, looking on at practice, seemed to fret him. He tried to curve his ball, and made a mess of it. Kirby laughed. Pence drawled:

"Strike one--_not_!"

Even Pudge MacComber giggled at the next one, it was so wild. Midkiff turned to glare at the group.

"Look out, Horrors!" Kirby said to Pence. "He's going to bean you."

"If he did," said Red Phillips, "old Kid Horrors would certainly have something in his bean beside atmospheric pressure. He'd have a dent in it."

"Never mind the remarks from the side lines, Jawn," Rex found it necessary to say. "Keep your mind on that spherical object in your lily white hand. Let's do something with it. Now----"

He signaled again, and squatted to get the drop he had called for. Midkiff, steadied as he usually was by the captain's voice, sent in one that fairly grooved the pan.

"Bravo!" acclaimed Pence. "Quite pretty. But no speed."

Kingdon would not let his roommate use all his speed. Midkiff had not been using his arm much for a fortnight, and there was a reason for petting it a little. After a few more passes, Harry Kirby said impatiently:

"You fellers make me ill. Stop throwing kisses at each other, and let a _real_ man pitch."

"I'd like to catch for a real swift ball tosser," Rex said meekly.

"Believe me, you'd think you were doing it if you tried to hold Horrors."

"Is he good as all that?" queried Kingdon, picking a rather wild one of Midkiff's out of the air.

"He is," declared Kirby.

"Maybe I couldn't hold him," Rex said gently.

"You'd know you'd been catching something when you got through," the other laughed sneeringly.

Kingdon looked quizzically over at the silent Pence.

"You've got a good booster," he said. "Wish you'd show me a few."

"Oh, I can wait my turn," Pence drawled.

"No time like the present. Come on in, Mid. Our friend here is going to show us something fancy."

"Think you can hold me, do you?" asked Pence.

"I can try," Rex rejoined modestly.

"I've heard you think yourself the real thing," said Pence, rising languidly as the scowling Midkiff came in.

"Put 'em anywhere within reach and I'll grab at 'em," Rex promised.

*CHAPTER X.*

*KINGDON STATES A DETERMINATION.*

"'Minds me of Wash Hornbrook, Red. 'Member?" whispered Peewee Hicks, watching the tall, dark fellow going out to the mound.

Kingdon had already noted the resemblance of Pence to the clever, good-looking athlete who had once been the leading spirit at Walcott Hall. Horace Pence did not look at all like Hornbrook, but his manner suggested the prep. school hero, now gone to college.

That Pence was a leader the attitude of his mates plainly revealed. He was a personable fellow, and as graceful as a panther. Kingdon smiled and settled himself to receive the first pitched ball.

Kingdon had succeeded as captain of the school ball team, principally because he was a good reader of character. He gave less attention now to the muscular development of Horace Pence than he did to his face.

He saw in Pence's handsome, reckless visage with its sneeringly uplifted lip, a certain cool determination that Rex could not but admire. The black-haired chap was going out there with the intention of making the Walcott Hall backstop flinch before his speed. He saw, likewise, that Pence was a left-hander; for when the chap reached the pitcher's station he turned his right side to Kingdon. He took little time for his wind-up, merely tossing over his shoulder:

"Ready?"

"Waiting," answered Rex.

The horsehide struck the catcher's mitt, seemingly the next second.

"Oh, boy!" yelled Red Phillips, giving credit where credit was due. "Some speed!"

Kingdon tossed the sphere back. The bullet that next shot over hummed like a bee. Kingdon spread his legs wider and waited impassively for the third ball. Pence took more time about it and put even more speed into his throw. It was a wonder. The Walcott Hall lads, camped in the shade, gasped.

A flush had come into the dark fellow's face. He rolled up his sleeve with a vexed motion, spat upon his hand, grinned at the waiting backstop, and drove in his fourth ball.

It was caught as the others had been, but the force of the delivery was so great that Kingdon stepped back to recover his balance. Then he drawled:

"That's four balls. Man takes his base. Say, the speed is all right; why not put over a strike now and then?"

"Your eyesight's bad," declared Pence, poised for another throw. "You're weakening."

"Maybe," Kingdon said, holding up his hand. "But I don't think so. What's the use of having all that speed if you have no control?"

The pitcher's black eyes flashed. "Who says I don't get 'em over?" he snapped.

Kingdon beckoned to Harry Kirby. "You umpire," he invited.

Kirby looked at Pence for permission. The latter said:

"Oh, go ahead. The blond person's beginning to feel weary already. When I've poured a few more into him he'll claim his lip's cracked, or something, and quit."

Kingdon smiled as Kirby ran to take his station, adjusting his mask.

"Now, son," muttered the Walcott Hall backstop, "keep your eye on the ball."

The southpaw wound up again, and the ball whizzed in and slapped against Kingdon's glove. The latter held it and looked at Kirby.

"Ball!" Kirby was forced to proclaim.

"What?" ejaculated the boy on the mound. "Give me that----"

He caught Kingdon's accurate throw, and immediately flung another hot one. "How's that?" he demanded exultantly.

Kirby actually flushed. "Ball again," he said.

"Why, you poor bat!" Pence exclaimed. "Can't you see anything?"

Kingdon chuckled and tossed up the ball. "Two to one, Mister," he said. "You've got to do better than that. Your speed's all right; but you're as wild as an Igorote. Come down to Mother Earth."

Horace Pence recovered from his momentary display of spleen, and smiled. That uplift of his lip was not pleasant to observe. He was cool again.

He marked the plate well, poised himself with more care for the throw, and grooved the pan. Kingdon caught the ball in his ungloved hand.

"Right over," he said. "But the batter could have poled it over the fence, if he'd had any kind of luck at all."

"That's all right," Pence said easily. "I'll work up to my speed in a minute or two. You don't want to stop many of them with your bare hand."

He flung another that cut the corner of the plate. Then another. His arm seemed tireless, and the balls were soon whizzing in again with terrific speed. About half of them the prejudiced Kirby pronounced strikes.

Kingdon beckoned to Red Phillips. "Let's see how these limited expresses look to a real batsman," he said. "Bring your club, Red. See if you can aeroplane one of these hot ones. Run down toward center, Peewee, and watch it sail."

"Don't let that lanky chap hit me, King," said the red-haired youth. "He's as wild as a hawk."

Pence smiled his canine smile and waited for Red to take his position. Without accepting any advice from the catcher, he sent in the first ball. Red was not on the job, and Kirby shouted:

"Strike!"

"Hold your bat out, Carrots, and I'll hit it," drawled the black-haired chap.

"See that I don't hit _you_ one," warned Phillips. Then he swung, with a grunt. The ball came like a shot from a cannon, but Red was well used to fast ones. Bat and ball connected, and the latter sailed high over Horace Pence's head into center field. Peewee retrieved it; and it was relayed home; for Midkiff had gone out by the second bag rather than sit with the crew from the other camp.

"You see," said Kingdon softly, "that's what a real good batsman would do to your fast balls when you got 'em over."

"Not to all of 'em," returned Pence, his black eyes flashing and the red deepening in his cheeks.

"Enough to make you tired," drawled Kingdon.

"You're mighty smart!" scoffed Kirby, as Pence made no reply. "Who told you so much, Curly?"

Phillips continued to connect with about two out of every three balls Pence pitched. And the dark chap grew hotter and hotter--inside. On the surface he was like ice. Kingdon admired him.

"Red," the backstop whispered while Peewee and Midkiff were relaying the ball on one occasion, "that lad will be a pitcher some day."

"He thinks he is now," returned the batter.

"You're the only man I know could bump his speed this way. Things aren't breaking good for him, but he keeps his head. And he's a southpaw. Red, I'd give all my old hats to have that chap at Walcott Hall!"

Phillips stared at him. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Some of your gears are loose."

"Believe me," said Kingdon, softly, "if it can be did, your uncle is going to bring it about. Don't you think that _you_ are the only real, blow-in-the-bottle scout for the old school. There are others. You lassoed me into the Hall, didn't you?"

"Aw--well--_you_----"

"I wasn't as good as this Pence," admitted Kingdon, honestly. "I tell you I yearn for Blacky on our pitching staff, and I hope to see him there."

"The foolish factory's where you belong," returned Red.

*CHAPTER XI.*

*ENOS QUIBB AGAIN.*

Pence got down to curving a few, and Red Phillips did not find it so easy to hammer the ball. The black-haired fellow's benders weren't remarkable; it was evident that he had gone in for speed almost entirely, and had not tried for control.

Without doubt Horace Pence felt that his showing was not of the first class. Used as he was to lording it over his fellows, being superior to them in almost every sport and pastime, it cut him to be criticized right where he felt himself to be strongest.

He was a small town ball-player, used to playing with High School nines and factory teams on Saturday afternoons. No real coach had ever trained Pence, and it is doubtful if he--with his excellent opinion of himself--would have taken at all kindly to the advice of an ordinary coach. That was really the principal trouble with Horace Pence; he had never been disciplined.

Rex Kingdon was different from the ordinary coach. Pence had gone up to the pitcher's position with every expectation of making the blond chap flinch and cry quits. Kirby was a husky fellow, with hands toughened by hard toil; for his father made him work in his coal and wood yard when he was out of school. Harry at times had difficulty in holding Pence.

This catcher from Walcott Hall was not feazed by all the speed at Pence's command. He came up smiling every time. Not only that, but he had used Kirby to display the fact that few of those speedy balls would ever pass muster in a regular game where there were good batters.

Kirby had scoffed at Kingdon and Red Phillips; Ben Comas had sneered; while Pudge's expression of countenance was disdainful. Nevertheless, Pence knew his exhibition had not been distinctly brilliant.