Just as he was passing a thick copse where the road turned and high trees on either side shut the highway into dimness and obscurity, there was a rustle in the underbrush.
“Halt!”
A form stepped into view suddenly. It was that of a boy. In his hand he poised a long pole sharpened at the end. This he directed straight at Tom.
“Halt!”
A second figure came quite as magically into view. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth and sixth, and the astounded Tom stared vaguely at a perfect circle formed about him by the sextette.
“Why,” he began, turning in a ring and discovering that each one of the group wore a sable-lined hood over his head with slits cut in for eyes, nose and mouth, “I understand now—the Black Caps.”
“That’s right,” responded a voice from behind one of the masks, disguised into great gruffness. “March!”
“March where?” demanded Tom, a half amused smile on his face.
“Don’t fool,” spoke a second voice quickly. “Get him under cover.”
“Yes, someone may come along,” spoke another of the masked crowd.