“Hey!” he panted, jabbing his finger at me. “We want him.”
The killer, having eagerly searched the newcomers’ faces in the hope of finding my churns, smiled dryly.
“Who,” he inquired slowly, holding Bid’s eyes, “are ‘we’?”
The leader waggled and gestured.
“He tore our tent down, mister. You can come up the hill and see for yourself if you don’t believe me. We’re camping up there. And he came up on us when we were asleep.”
Jimmy Stricker got his shrill voice oiled up.
“He made us think he was a ghost.”
This gave the killer an explanation of my not [[217]]ordinary appearance. And his peculiar smile deepened as he looked me over.
“Have you,” he inquired gravely, “been picking on these poor defenseless boys?”
I nodded.