“You may be mistaken in regard to the faces,” replied Clay. “You can never tell by the looks of a porcupine how far he can throw his quills. What is that man looking at?”
He certainly was as evil-faced a fellow as one could come upon in a day’s walk.
CHAPTER VII
STOLEN—A MOTOR BOAT
“I’ve seen that face before, unless I am much mistaken,” was the reply. “It must be Mad Rowell, a person who just thinks he’s the toughest man that ever came down the pike.”
The boys were in the store by this time with a meager supply of clothing in front of them. Mad Rowell was evidently looking for trouble. He kept his evil eyes fixed upon the party in an effort to stare them out of countenance.
“This looks like a mix-up with the fellow,” whispered Case. “I wish I had my gun with me.”
“No need of a gun, son,” was the reply. “You wouldn’t get a chance to use it if you had it,” with a quick motion toward a breast pocket.
“Hands up!”
The command was given in the usual tone, but Mad Rowell obeyed instantly. His hand, already bringing a weapon from his pocket, dropped to his side, the weapon clattering to the floor.