During holiday week the boys took occasion to tell their uncle all
of the particulars concerning the tramp called Buddy, Arnold
Baxter, and his son the bully. It is needless to state that
Randolph Rover listened to their story with interest.
"I would like to meet this man with a scar on his chin," he said.
"Speaking of him reminds me of something that happened years ago."
"What was it, Uncle Randolph?" questioned Tom.
"Your father had an enemy who had a scar on his chin."
"What!" cried Sam. "Could it have been this Arnold Baxter?"
"Hardly, although such a thing is possible. This man was a
Westerner, and laid claim to some property owned by your father.
They had a quarrel, and the fellow shot your father in the arm and
then ran away. I never learned any of the particulars."
"Arnold Baxter and this Buddy spoke about a mining claim, and about some papers," burst out Tom. "I'd like to wager he is the same chap!"
"If he is, you want to beware of him," responded Randolph Rover gravely. "He is your father's deadliest enemy."
"I'll remember that," said Dick, and his brothers nodded. The matter was talked over for several hours, but brought little satisfaction.
On New Year's Day came another fall of snow, and the lads spent the afternoon in a regular snowballing match among themselves and with the hired man. Poor Jack caught it on all sides, and after quarter of an hour's bombardment was glad enough to run to the barn, for shelter. "But it's great sport," he grinned, as he almost stood on his head trying to get from the back of his neck a soft snowball which Tom had planted there.