"Yes," he said, "it's Obed himself. I'll talk to you in a minute, after I've got through with this consarned villain."
By this time the tramp, though startled and dazed, was on his feet, and preparing to make a desperate assault on the Yankee. But though quite as strong, and possibly stronger than Obed Stackpole, he had now to encounter a foe by no means to be despised. Moreover, he had laid down his knotted stick, and Obed had secured it. It was a formidable weapon, and Mr. Stackpole was quite ready to make use of it.
"Give me my stick!" shouted the tramp hoarsely.
"I mean to," responded the Yankee coolly. "Where will you have it?"
He stepped back warily, as the other advanced, holding the stick in a strong grasp, while he kept his eyes steadily fixed on his opponent. He was cool, but his enemy was enraged, and rage made him incautious.
He made a desperate clutch at the stick, but with a powerful sweep Obed struck him on the side of the head, and he fell like an ox, stunned and insensible.
"That settles you, my friend, I guess," said Obed. "You brought it upon yourself, and you've got no one else to blame. Watch him, Harry, to see that he doesn't come to himself, while I tie his hands."
Obed whipped a strong cord from his pockets, and secured the wrists of the prostrate enemy, tying them securely together.
"Will you tie his feet, too?" asked Jack.
"No, it is not necessary. He can't do any harm now. I came in the nick of time, boys, didn't I?"