"Don't we?" scowled Dave Darrin. "Then start something—we'll do the rest."
"Get back with that crowbar!" ordered the fellow sullenly. "Put that air rifle down, and drop that bow and arrow."
"Get up and make us," advised Dick Prescott almost placidly. "Now, Mr. Fits, I hope you realize that we're a few too many for you. As we suggested some time ago, we're going to order you out of here—and at once. And we're not going to take any fooling, either."
"But I can't go out," protested the big fellow. "Why, I'd be found frozen to death in the blizzard."
"You won't have to go far," Dick informed him. "You of course know, as well as we do, that there's a little cook shack at the rear of this cabin. There's a stove there, some firewood and two barrels of coal. Now, you're going there——"
"I won't."
"Yes, you are," Prescott asserted. "Unless you want us to beat you up and simply throw you outside into a snowdrift."
"But I'm hungry," protested Mr. Fits. "Also, it's mighty cold lying here."
"Stay right where you are," Dick went on sternly. "Hen, get this fellow's overcoat and throw it on the floor near the door."
Dutcher obeyed, though he seemed to feel decidedly nervous about it.