The Young Oarsmen of Lakeview. Stratemeyer Edward

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      “Oh, you can’t escape us.”

      “Not much, he can’t,” put in another, and now Jerry felt sure that the speaker was Wash Crosby.

      “We’ll talk about that later, Crosby.”

      The masked boy started back and denied his identity. But it was plain to see he was much put out.

      “I know you, Peters, Crosby, Banner and Graves,” went on Jerry. “And I’ll discover who you other two fellows are before I leave here, too.”

      “Fiddlesticks!” shouted one of the boys by the fire who was stirring the tar.

      “Is it getting soft?” asked Crosby.

      “Yes.”

      “Where is the brush?”

      “I’ve got it,” spoke up another, and he held up the stump of an old whitewash brush.

      “That’s all right.”

      At a signal from Peters the crowd of masked boys withdrew to the side of the fire.

      Here a long talk followed. It was so low that Jerry could not hear a word.

      Peters was making the crowd solemnly promise that they would not inform upon each other, no matter what happened.

      “If we stick together, Upton can prove nothing,” he said. “He has no witnesses.”

      “Right you are, Si.”

      “We want to get square, and this is the chance of our lives to do it.”

      “We can give him the tar and feathers and then leave him tied up in such a fashion that he can get free, but not before we have had a chance to make good our escape and get home and to bed.”

      “That’s the way to fix it.”

      “It will teach Lakeporters a good lesson,” put in one of the unknowns. “My! but ain’t I down on every one of ’em.”

      “And so am I!”

      “And I!”

      “And I!”

      In the meanwhile the young oarsman was trying his best to work himself free of his bonds. He felt that unless he escaped he would surely be tarred and feathered.

      He tugged at the ropes around his body, and after a hard struggle he managed to free his left arm.

      His right arm followed, although this cost him a bad cut on the wrist, from which the blood flowed freely.

      But he gave the wound no thought, and in haste began to work at the rope at his waist.

      Now that was loosened, only the one around his knees remained.

      He looked anxiously toward the fire. The masked boys were still in deep discussion, and not a single eye was directed toward the prisoner.

      Oh, for three minutes more time!

      He worked with feverish haste.

      And now he was practically free!

      Si Peters turned and beheld him as he took a step behind the tree, out of the glare of the fire.

      “He has got away, fellows!” he shouted. “After him, quick!”

      A yell went up, and the crowd rushed forward.

      “He mustn’t escape us!”

      “We worked too hard to capture him!”

      “See, he is limping! The rope is still fastened to one of his legs!”

      Like a pack of wolves after a rabbit they came after Jerry.

      Our hero did his best to outdistance them, and he would have succeeded had it not been for the rope around one knee, which caught in a tree root and threw him down flat on his face. In another moment the crowd was on top of him.

      They showed him no mercy. Si Peters was particularly brutal and kicked Jerry heavily in the side half a dozen times.

      “I’ll teach you to crawl away, you sneak!” he cried. “You can’t fool us in this fashion.”

      The kicks stunned Jerry and deprived him of his wind. He fought as best he could, but he was no match for six strong boys.

      Again he was overpowered. Then the gang dragged him to the side of the roaring camp fire and threw off their masks.

      “Now we’ll strip him,” said Wash Crosby. “The tar is all ready and so are the feathers.”

      Jerry’s struggles availed him nothing. His coat and vest were literally ripped from his body, and his shirt followed.

      “Give me the brush. I want to give him the first dose,” sang out Si Peters.

      The old whitewash brush was handed to the leader. Si dipped it deeply into the pot of hot tar, and approached the young oarsman.

      “Now, Jerry Upton, we’ll tar and feather you in spite of your threats,” he said.

      CHAPTER X.

      WHAT TOWSER DID

      “Well, by creation! what does this mean?”

      The speaker was Mr. Upton, Jerry’s father. He was gazing at the hay-rick, which was coming down the road to the barn at a lively gait.

      As the boys who had captured Jerry had thought, the horses had found their way home alone.

      Anxiously, Mr. Upton looked around for Jerry, and then he stopped the team and put them up in the barn.

      Running into the house he told his wife of the state of affairs. Instantly Mrs. Upton grew alarmed.

      “Perhaps they ran away and threw Jerry out!” she cried.

      “It ain’t likely they could get away with Jerry,” replied Mr. Upton. “But I allow it is curious.”

      A half hour went by, and the farmer determined to start on a hunt for his son. He went off on horseback, and took with him Towser, the farm dog.

      Towser was an old and faithful animal, a prime favorite with Jerry, and he trotted along beside the horse as if he knew something was wrong.

      “We want to find Jerry, Towser,” said Mr. Upton. “Jerry, Towser, Jerry!”

      And the dog wagged his tail as if to say that he understood perfectly.

      It was now quite dark. The farmer had brought along a lantern, and this he lit and swung around first on one side of the road and then on the other. As he journeyed along he remembered Jerry’s troubles with the Rockpoint boys.

      “Maybe he has had another fight,” he thought. “It was foolish to let him go over there.”

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