Again snorting, young Mosher cocked both hammers of the shotgun,
Dick heard the clicks, but still walked on.
"I hate to do it!" called Tag warningly.
"Oh, you won't do it," Dick answered in a tone of calm self-assurance.
Young Prescott kept on for another hundred yards. No sound came from behind him. Unless young Mosher were creeping upon him, Prescott knew that he was now out of range of the shotgun.
Impelled by curiosity, Dick wheeled about Tag Mosher was nowhere in sight.
"Either that fellow isn't half as bad as he pretends to be, or else not half as desperate as he likes to think himself," Dick chuckled.
Then, remembering, in a flash, the herbs that he had come to get, the Gridley High School boy deliberately walked back to the spot where he had left this strange vagrant of the forest.
But Tag was no longer there—-not in sight, at any rate. Bending over, Prescott collected a goodly bunch of the herbs. Then, after glancing at his watch, he started back to camp.
It was late when he returned. Dave was back from his swim, the table was set, and all was in readiness to sit down.
"Too late to use the herbs to-day, I guess," said Tom, as Dick laid them down. "You were gone a long time, old fellow."