"The very same, lad. I wonder if he is dead?"
"I don't think so. But he got a bad crack on the head, that's certain."
Joseph Farvel lay in a slight hollow on the road. He had been hit over the left eye by some blunt instrument, probably a club, and the blood was pouring copiously from the wound.
Forgetting that this sour-faced man was his worst enemy, Robert Menden whipped out his handkerchief, soaked it in a nearby pool of water, and bound it about Farvel's head. Then he and old Jacob carried the sufferer to a shady spot under a tree.
In the meantime the others gathered around, and then Don uttered a cry.
"Bob's knife!"
He was right; there lay the knife beside the spot where Joseph Farvel had rested.
"It's mine, sure enough," said Bob, as he looked the blade over. He gazed at Robert Menden. "Do you think it was this Joseph Farvel who entered our room?"
"Great Cæsar! Perhaps."
"I believe it was that Bumbum," put in Dick. "I remember now that he cast longing glances at my pocketbook when I paid him that second five dollars. He is a regular brigand—or rather, a common sneak thief and footpad—and he probably tackled this Farvel for what he could get out of the fellow."