"Yes; there is," answered Dick, wondering why Tag didn't leap up and scurry away. "And guess who offers the reward?"
"Who?"
"Your father!"
"Bill Mosher?" laughed Tag, despite his sulky air. "What does
Bill offer? The next dozen of eggs?"
"Tag, Bill Mosher isn't your father, and he has admitted it. You were a strange child that came into his care, and he kept you, at first, hoping for a reward. Your real name is Page, and your real father is now over at camp. I'll call him."
"You may as well," agreed Tag sullenly. "But Page is a new name.
Is that what they call the sheriff now?"
"Tag, aren't you ever going to be serious?" demanded Dick, flushing with eagerness.
"Not while you go on springing the same old line of fairy tales on me," retorted the other lad. "Is my father, as you call him, as rich as he was yesterday and the day before? Has he still barrels of money that he's waiting to hand me? Money? Humph! If it hadn't been for money I wouldn't be in the fix I am now. Prescott, I'll tell you something. I've kept the cupboard full by stealing. I'll admit that. But I never stole money before to-day. I went through those dog-houses—-what do you call them?"
"Do you mean the portable houses of the Bentley party?" asked Dick.
"I guess that's the right name. Anyway, I went through those houses to gather in some food, for I was going to leave these woods for good and all."