o mix with the food," Dave retorted.

"I'll have that grub, and some good coffee, set on mighty quick!"
growled the visitor. "If that doesn't happen, then I'll run you all out
into the snow. You won't last long out there, I warrant you! It's a
fearful night."

"Wait!" begged Hen Dutcher. "I'll wait on you, sir."

"No, you won't, Hen," spoke Dick sharply, firmly. "This man doesn't stay
here. He's going to leave mighty soon, or he'll wish he had. If you do
anything that we can't stand for, Hen, we'll put you outdoors with Mr.
Fits."

"You wait on me, boy," ordered Fits gruffly.

"Yes, sir, I----"

"----won't," Dave finished for him snappily. "See here, Hen, you are of
no account here. Look out that you don't make yourself too unpopular to
be allowed to remain here to-night."

"I see that I've got to teach some of you young cubs a lesson," remarked
Fits, rising from the chair.

"Look out that we don't teach you one!" cried Dick. "Watch him, fellows.
If Mr. Fits gets too familiar, then sail into him!"

Dick snatched up one hatchet, Greg another. Dan made a rush for the bow
and arrow, fitting a steel tipped arrow to the string. Tom Reade espied
the crowbar, and reached it in two bounds. Dave Darrin caught up a stick
of firewood, Harry Hazelton following suit.

Hen Dutcher didn't do anything except to slink away to one side of the
big room. His bravery didn't go beyond the risk of telling lies.

"If Fits makes a move towards any of us, fellows," commanded Dick, in a
tone whose steadiness surprised even young Prescott himself, "then the
rest close in on all sides and give this big bully the best you've
got."

"I wish there was a hatchet for me," growled Dave, whose eyes were
flashing dangerously.

"Take this one," replied Dick, passing over his own hastily snatched-up
weapon. Thereupon Prescott fell back for an instant, darting over to a
pile of boxes and picking up the air rifle that had been brought along.

"Let's see if this air rifle is working?" pondered Dick aloud. He took
quick aim and pressed the trigger.

"You dratted little pirate!" roared Mr. Fits, tensing for a leap
forward. "I'll show you----"

"You'll get a lot more, if you don't quit trying to run things here,"
Dick threatened coolly.

Mr. Fits was waving his right hand aloft. Dick had struck the back of
that hand with one of the pellets that the rifle carried in its
magazine. The skin wasn't broken on that right hand, but the place
stung,