"Coming," came the call, in Darry's voice. The sound of running feet sounded on the road.
Tag Mosher glanced uneasily about, as if meditating flight. Then his keen eyes scrutinized Prescott's face.
"What's up?" demanded Dave, as, even in the darkness he caught sight of another figure.
"Darry," smiled Dick, "I wish to present my friend, Mr. Tag Mosher."
"What?" gasped Darrin. "This Tag Mosher. By Jove, it is, it?
How on earth did you make him wait for us?"
Then, all in a flying heap Dave projected himself against young
Mosher, clinching with him and bearing him down to the ground.
In order to make doubly sure Greg joined in the assault. But
Tag, though he struggled, did not put up much of a fight.
"Quit!" he ordered sullenly. "I'm all in. Can't you fellows see that? But if I hadn't been sick I'd either have gotten away, or would have given you fellows a fight that you'd never forget!"
Quick-witted Dave was not long in discovering that Tag really was weak, as though from a recent illness.
"Say," demanded Darry, "have we been exerting ourselves to thrash an ambulance case?" His voice rang with self disgust.
"If I'd been a well one," growled Tag, "you never would have put me down, or held me. But I'm like a kitten to-night——strength all gone!"