"The skin isn't broken," Bud observed, with a tone of real concern, for, in spite of the fact that the fellow was there on no friendly mission, the catapult "dead shot" now felt no exultation over his deed.
"No, or I could not have used the liniment," Mr. Perry replied. "His clothing protected him against a broken wound. By the way," he continued, turning to the victim, who lay on one of the camp cots that formed a part of the regular equipment of the Catwhisker; "who are you and what were you doing here?"
"Never you mind who I am or what I was doing here," snapped the youth, who appeared to be a few years older than the boy Catwhiskerites and their Canadian friend, Max. "You wait till my father gets after you. He'll clean you all up."
"And who may your father be?" inquired Mr. Perry with provoking calmness.
"You'll find out who my father is, just you wait. You haven't any right here. These islands belong to my father and—"
"Oh—ho!" interrupted Mr. Perry in tone of sudden discovery. "So that's the way the wind blows, is it? I get you now. You're the son of one of those kidnappers."
The boy's face twitched, possibly with pain, more likely with alarm at his having betrayed his identity so foolishly.
"We'll get down to the bottom of this mystery yet," Cub declared confidently.
"Yes, all we need is a little mathematics, Mr. Perry, and we'll soon solve the problem."
"We've had some mathematics already," Mr. Perry smiled.