"Roger Strong!" he called out. I instantly recognized the voice of Dick Blair, one of the youngest members of the Models, who, during my capture, had had little to say or do. He was the son of a wealthy farmer who lived but a short distance down the road from the Widow Canby's place.
I had always considered Dick a pretty good chap, and had been disagreeably surprised to see him in company with Duncan Woodward's crowd. How Duncan had ever taken up with him I could not imagine, except it might have been on account of the money Dick's father allowed him to have.
"Roger Strong!" he repeated. "Are you still here?"
I could, not imagine what had brought him to this place at such an hour of the night. Yet I answered at once.
"Yes, I am, Dick Blair."
"I thought maybe you had managed to get away," he continued, as he came closer.
"No; you fellows did your work pretty well," I replied as lightly as I could, for I did not want to show the white feather.
"Precious little I had to do with it," he went on, as he struck a match and lit a lantern that he carried.
"You were with the crowd."
"I know it; but I wouldn't have been if I'd known what they were up to. I hope you will not think too badly of me, Roger."