"I saw a cut on his head," said Andy. "It's so dark——"
"Light another match," advised Frank. "I can't find my box."
In the darkness Billy moaned faintly, and stirred as he lay on the damp ground.
"Lift him up," advised Andy, as he once more struck a match. "We've got to carry him to some place. A thief must have held him up, and, when he resisted, struck him. Say, this is fierce!"
"What makes you think it was a thief?" asked Frank.
"Because, who else would do it?"
"I was thinking of the man we passed a minute ago. He——"
"That's so!" exclaimed the impetuous Andy. "I believe it was that fellow! Say, that's a bad cut all right."
Frank had raised Billy's head from the ground, and, as he did so, while Andy stood by, with a ready supply of matches, the injured lad opened his eyes, and tried to struggle to his feet.
"Where is it?" he cried. "Did he get it? He attacked me, and then—I wonder if I have it safe? If it is gone my uncle will have to—Oh, if he has taken it——"