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Updated: May 10, 2025
"I came alone," he bellowed wrathfully. "There weren't any other fellows." "Don't you call Ripley a fellow?" pressed Dick. "You said that he and his crowd came on a wagon. So they're going to play pranks on us, are they?" "I don't know what you're talking about," protested Hen hoarsely. Dave, Tom and Greg fastened on Dutcher, dragging him out of his chair.
Dutcher, or Old Dutcher, as he was universally called in Carleton. Ned did not exactly look forward to the interview with pleasure. Old Dutcher was a crank there was no getting around that fact. He had "good days" occasionally when, for him, he was fairly affable, but they were few and far between, and Ned had no reason to hope that this would be one.
"While you're at it I'll pry more loose." Hen Dutcher picked up the smallest of the logs, starting for the cabin, but Greg caught him by the shoulder. "See here, Mr. Lazy, if you're going to pick out such easy ones as that, take two at a time." "I can't," sputtered Hen. "Then I'll turn you over to Dave Darrin when you get inside."
Breathless with excitement, Dick crouched over the hole in the dirt floor, unwilling to make a move until the other fellows had joined him. That didn't take long. Hen Dutcher was one of the first to get a glimpse at what had filled Prescott with so much excitement. "Gracious! It must be Captain Kidd's treasure!" gasped Hen. "Guess again," replied Tom Reade.
"I didn't say I was going to tell Fred's father," Dick answered, his color rising, "and I haven't any thought of it, either. Any fellow of anywhere near my own size who calls me a sneak can have his answer two of them," Dick went on, displaying his fists. "You know that well enough, Hen Dutcher.
"What are we going to have to eat this morning, and when?" Hen wanted to know. "I guess we'll have a light breakfast this morning," hinted Reade. "Why?" demanded Dutcher, his jaw dropping. "So we can have a better appetite for the turkey we brought along. Fellows, don't you think we'd better eat that turkey to-day? It may not keep."
"Thanks to you, Hen, they didn't," Dave answered. "Me? What did I have to do with the scoundrel getting away?" demanded Dutcher, with an offended air. "You had to turn your voice loose," Darrin informed him. "That gave Mr. Fits warning. Then you yelled out again, just as we reached the cabin. Fits had had time to get on his snowshoes, and then he started.
Each fellow brought his own, and on a night like this any fellow who lends any of his bedding is bound to catch cold when the fire runs lower and the place gets chilly." "But I gotter have blankets," whined Dutcher. "I can't freeze, either." "I'll tell you what you do, Hen," Dick went on. "There are seven overcoats in the crowd. They'll keep you warm enough."
"And you turned on Central Grammar boys to help a lot of High School fellows out?" asked Dick in fine scorn. "Well, I was crazy to have a day or two out here in the woods, and you fellows didn't ask me," protested Hen. "The other crowd did." "Yes; because they wanted to use you for a tool against us. They wanted to make you their catspaw, Hen Dutcher. Oh, you must feel fine!
Tom Reade espied the crowbar, and reached it in two bounds. Dave Darrin caught up a stick of firewood, Harry Hazelton following suit. Hen Dutcher didn't do anything except to slink away to one side of the big room. His bravery didn't go beyond the risk of telling lies.
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