The man came toward them, his hat pulled forward so as to shield his face from view. He held out his hand.
“I’ll take that package,” he said in a low, gruff voice.
Bruce held it out and then pulled it back. “What time is it?” he asked, according to the instructions he had received from Brent Stockton.
“After nine,” the man said pleasantly. “Gettin’ late for you youngsters to be out. Give me that package and you can go home.”
“Sorry,” Bruce shook his head. “I don’t think it is for you.”
“Give it to me!” The man advanced slowly and ominously upon Bruce.
“B-Be c-careful, Bruce,” Gale whispered with difficulty.
Under cover of the darkness Bruce passed the package behind his back to Gale. She took it and moved a few paces away.
The man’s arm shot out and Bruce was sent sprawling in the dust. The man turned to Gale who backed slowly away. Bruce had played football too much to stay down from such a gentle push and now he launched himself forward in the tackle that had helped Marchton High School win so many football games.
The man fell to the ground with Bruce on top of him. Bruce tried to cling to his perilous position on top of his adversary but he was in sad danger of losing his advantage when help arrived in the form of another silent figure which came also from the ruins of the spring house. The newcomer hauled the two apart and in the moment that Bruce was getting to his feet the other man broke away and ran among the trees, disappearing into the darkness.