“I’m afraid, Mr. Newnham, that you’ve reached here just in time to see some very real trouble,” was Reade’s quick answer. “But wait just two minutes, sir, and we’ll have exact information. Guessing won’t do any good.”
Once or twice, through the trees, they caught sight of the on-rushing rider. Then Jack Rutter, a big splotch of red on the left sleeve of his shirt, rode hard into camp.
“Reade,” he shouted, “we’re ambushed! Hidden scoundrels have been firing on us.”
“You’ve ordered all the men in?” called Tom, as Rutter reined up beside him.
“Every man of them,” returned Jack. “Poor Reynolds, of the student party, is rather seriously hit, I’m afraid. Some of the fellows are bringing him in.”
“You’re hit yourself,” Tom remarked.
“What? That little scratch?” demanded Rutter scornfully. “Don’t count me as a wounded man, Reade. There are some firearms in this camp. I want to get the men armed, as far as the weapons will go, and then I want to go back and smoke out the miserable rascals!”
“It won’t be wise, Jack,” Tom continued coolly. “You’ll find that there are too many of the enemy. Besides, you won’t have to fatigue yourselves by going back over the trail. The scoundrels will be here, before long. They doubtless intend to wipe out the camp.”
“Assassins coming to wipe out the camp?” almost exploded President Newnham. “Reade, this is most extraordinary!”
“It is—-very,” Tom assented dryly.