The act and the words startled Brick. He suddenly realized that his companion had some evil design against him.
“Give me my rifle,” he said. “I can find the way back alone. The boys are likely to meet me.”
Bogle scowled savagely.
“Don’t get obstinate, youngster,” he said, in a sharp tone. “I told you before that you were going with us. Now march! we have no time to lose.”
Again Brick recognized the familiar chord in the man’s voice. Like a flash, he remembered where he had heard it. The discovery so angered him that he forgot every instinct of prudence.
“I know you now,” he cried. “You can’t fool me with your beard and mustache. You are the missionary who was on the train that night. You followed me and tried to steal my pocketbook.”
The ferocious expression that instantly appeared on Bogle’s face told Brick he had done a foolish thing. His dread of consequences led him to commit another blunder. He turned and dashed at full speed across the clearing.
A hoarse command to stop fell on his ears. He disregarded it and ran faster. He heard crunching footsteps behind him. Then one of his snowshoes caught in a tuft of bushes, and he sprawled headlong. As he rose to his feet, a muscular hand clutched his collar. He wheeled around to meet Bogle’s grim and angry face.
“I’ve got you,” growled the ruffian. “Don’t try another trick of this sort, youngster, or you’ll be sorry.”
“Let me go!” cried Brick. “Let me go, I say. It’s you that will be sorry!”