The intruder who had caused Joe so much disquietude was a slender stripling of a youth of not more than fifteen. He had a pale, studious face, big, frightened eyes and walked with a limp.
“Don’t hit me! Don’t!” he begged as he saw Joe standing there with lips grimly compressed and the oar raised ready to strike.
“Caught you right in the act, haven’t I?” spoke Joe, as fiercely as he could.
“Yes, sir,” said the lad in a thin, wavering voice.
“What do you mean by trespassing here?” demanded Joe.
The lad stammered something and Joe, touched in spite of himself by the youth’s wan, pale look, spoke more kindly.
“I’m not an officer or a judge,” he said, “but I’m in charge here, and you are trespassing on private property.”
The boy looked alarmed.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said, “I suppose I’d better get out.”
“Tell me what you came here for before you do that,” said Joe. “I’m interested in knowing.”