ne who has to travel the highway in this storm," muttered
Dave. "This isn't weather for human beings."

"Yet every bird of the air has to weather it," observed Hazelton.

"Yes," muttered Tom, "and a good many of the birds of the air
will be killed in this storm, too."

Night came down early. The wind and rain had sent the temperature
down until it seemed to the high school boys more like an October
night. The warmth and light in the tent were highly gratifying
to all.

"As long as the tent holds I can't think of a blessed thing we
have to go outside for," sighed Reade contentedly.

"We don't have to," laughed Dick. "Fellows, we're away off in
the wilderness, but we're as happy as we could be in a palace.
How about supper?"

That idea was approved instantly.

"We'll have two suppers to-night," proposed Tom. "That will be
the visible proof and expression of the highest happiness that
can be reached on a night like this."

Even by ten o'clock that night there was no abatement in the volume
of rain falling. The wind still howled.

"Are we going to turn in, soon?" inquired Dave.

"My vote," announced Tom indolently, "is for another supper, and
turn in at perhaps two o'clock in the morning."

"I second the motion---as far as another supper goes," chimed
in Danny Grin.

"It wants to be a supper of piping hot stuff, too," declared Greg.
"It's warm here in the tent, but the surrounding world is chill
and drear. Nothing but hot food will serve us."

Preparations for the meal were quickly under way.

"I hope everyone within the reach of this storm is as comfortable
as we are," murmured Hazelton.

"Why, we're so happy, we could entertain company with a relish,"
laughed Reade.

"Say, what was that?" demanded Greg.

From outside came a faint sound as of someone stealthily groping
about outside in the storm.

"Bring a lantern, quickly!" called Dick, going toward the tent
door.

As Greg played the rays of light against the darkness outside,
Dick suddenly sprang forth into the dark. Then he returned, bearing
in his arms the pitiful little figure of old Reuben Hinman, the
peddler.

"Look at his head!" gasped Reade, in horror, as Prescott entered
with the burden.

From a gash over the peddler's left temple blood was flowing,
leaving its dark trail over the peddler's light brown coat.

Dick carried the stricken old man straight to his own cot, laying
him there gently.

"Who can have done this deed?