Now the club was flourished threateningly, and the face of the man showed he really meant it. Frank grew grave, but did not take his eyes from the ruffian.
“Look here, Mr. Bunker,” he said, swiftly, “you are getting yourself into a bad scrape. If you don’t drop it, I’ll take the trouble to swear out a warrant for you at the earliest opportunity and place an officer on your track. It will not be difficult to put you behind iron bars.”
“Bah!” again cried the man. “You can’t save yourself that way. Cough up.”
“Not a cent!”
“Then you get it!”
“Come on!”
Frank fell into a defensive attitude, and Bunker swung the club aloft, starting to make a spring.
“Stop!”
The word rang out like a shot. It came from the lips of Bart Hodge, who was standing just behind Frank, having picked a small rifle out of the canoe. The weapon was at Bart’s shoulder, and its muzzle covered Bunker.
“Stop!” repeated Hodge. “If you make another move, I’ll send a twenty-two into your head! It won’t make a large hole, but it will do some damage, even to a wooden head, like yours.”