before we'd all lie down in the snow and
have to give up the fight. You've no idea, Dick, what a howler and piler
this storm is. You ought to go out and try it."

"If you say it can't be done, Dave, I'll take your word. You've as much
sand and fight as any of us."

"Supper!" yelled the intruder lustily.

"It's the cook's night off," jeered young Prescott.

"Oh, it is, hey?" roared the big fellow. "I'll show you."

Jumping to his feet, snatching up the chair on which he had been
sitting, and holding it above his head, Mr. Fits charged.

The crisis in the affair had arrived.

CHAPTER X

IN THE GRIP OF THE BIG BLIZZARD

Dick Prescott was squarely in the way. He didn't flinch or dodge,
either.

Like a flash he brought the air rifle up for use. But there was nothing
wicked in Dick Prescott. Even against such a foe as this big intruder;
Dick felt that it would be wrong, wicked, to aim for the face of Mr.
Fits.

Instead, Dick aimed for one of the fellow's legs. The little buckshot
went where aimed, but through the thick trousers and underwear the
little missile had no painful effect.

"Get back, you lunatic!" quivered Dan, in the same instant, drawing the
arrow to the head, ready to let drive.

But at that interesting moment another of the Grammar School boys saved
the situation. It was Tom Reade, who, just as Mr. Fits started forward,
and was still moving, thrust the crowbar between his legs.

Flop! Fits struck the earthen floor rather heavily, the chair flying
over the head of Dick Prescott and landing beyond.

"Good chance!" cheered Harry Hazelton, bringing down his stick of
firewood with a blow that resounded.

Tom Reade now raised the crowbar once more, standing where he could aim
at the fellow's head. Tom was both too generous and too tender hearted
to have struck a human being over the head with such an implement, even
had Fits given provocation.

"Don't get up, Mr. Fits," warned Dick, still gripping the air rifle. "If
you start to do so, it will be the signal for something to happen."

Their nerves tense from the peril of their surroundings, the Grammar
School boys, none of whom were cowards at heart, even though they were
pretty young, looked positively fierce in the eyes of the prostrate foe.

"You don't any of you dare hit me," he sneered, with an attempt at
bluster.

"Don't we?" scowled Dave Darrin. "Then start something--we'll do the
rest."

"Get back with that crowbar!" ordere