The Indian youth had already disappeared. The motorboat was nearing the shore of the island just below the camp. The cousins could plainly see the constable's face, as well as the big star upon his vest. Enos Quibb was not a handsome person at best, and just now his face was inflamed with anger and his frown was most portentous.
"He's got it in for us," said Pudge, apprehensively.
"All because of that fresh up there tossing the ball. It's up to him—that's what it is," declared Ben warmly. "Run, tell Horrors to come down here."
With a groan, the fat youth turned and waddled up the path into the thicker wood which seemed to crown the island. In the very middle of Storm Island, however, lay about two acres of open and level lawn. While yet Pudge was some distance from this spot the resonant slap of a ball as it landed in the catcher's mitt echoed flatly from the wall of tall trees completely surrounding the natural amphitheater.
"Hey! That's enough, Horrors!" the puffing fat boy heard Harry Kirby shout. "It's too hot to keep at it any longer. Quit, I say!"
Evidently he had flung the ball to the pitcher after removing his padded glove, and, just as Pudge came in sight of the two, the one called "Horrors" wound up again and whipped a sizzler over the marked square on the turf serving as the home plate.
"Quit, I say!" again yelled the backstop, as he leaped into the air, letting the low ball pass between his legs. "Think I'd be silly enough to try to stop that with my bare hands? That arm of yours has got dynamite in it, Horrors."
The pitcher was grinning in reply when a wild yell sounded from Pudge at the edge of the wood behind the catcher's station.
"Hey, you fellers! What're you tryin' to do—kill me? Nobody but a wild squawpaw could send in such a bullet. Ouch!"
Pudge limped forward, rubbing his shin where the pitched ball had nicked him.