He contorted his face in hideous fashion. This was a trick he had found very successful in intimidating other persons he wished to bully or oppress. But in the three boys before him, as we know, Dugan was up against boys out of the ordinary run. Instead of being impressed, Rob simply took a step forward, turning to his chums and saying in a natural, unshaken voice.
“Come on, fellows.”
“Yes, come on, fellows,” sneered the other. “Not so fast, my young buckos. I want a word with you. You’ve got some plans in your pockets. Are you going to give them up peaceably, or do you want a taste of Bill Dugan’s fists?”
Rob could not repress a start, not of fear, but of astonishment, as the fellow spoke.
How could he know anything about the plans he was carrying to the safe deposit vaults?
Dugan misinterpreted his hesitation.
“Come on now,” he grated, coming closer, with an ugly leer on his face; “fork over!”
As he spoke his hand crept back toward his hip. He might have to use his revolver. These boys were proving more obstinate than he had imagined. To his amazement, no trace of fear or alarm appeared on their faces for all his blustering.
“See here,” exclaimed Rob boldly, “I don’t know who you are and I don’t think I want to better the acquaintance. I do know this, however, that you wear the uniform of a United States soldier. Let us pass at once, and stop this nonsense, or——”
With a bellow of rage, Bill Dugan leaped forward. At the same instant he aimed a powerful blow at Rob’s head. The lad could hear the ponderous fist whistle as it cut through the air. But somehow, when the blow landed—or reached the point where it should have landed—Rob wasn’t there. The boy had nimbly sidestepped.