Gazing ahead, in the brilliant moonlight, they were relieved to see that there was not a solitary soul outside the noisy tavern; and it appeared, much to their satisfaction, that they would be able to get by the dangerous dive without being molested. “Looks like old Lady Luck is with us,” said Ben happily, as they drew up within a few yards of the open door. When they had come almost opposite the door, however, a runty, wizen-faced fellow, dressed in deerskin breeches and a cotton shirt open at the throat, shot out of the place as if propelled from a catapult. As he reached the outside, he suddenly tripped and pitched forward. And lucky he was; for just as he did so, a glass bottle sailed over his head and plopped into the shallow swamp with a kerplunk that sounded like a diving frog. The runty fellow was up in a flash. “Watcha trip me fer?” he demanded of Tom Gordon, who had been very nearly bowled over. “I didn’t trip you,” answered the boy quietly. “Skeered to ’fess up, eh?” he leered, doubling up his fists ominously. “Listen lunkhead,” repeated Tom, somewhat nettled by the chap’s manner, “I say that I didn’t trip you.” “Of course, he didn’t trip you,” Ben asserted firmly. “So run along and peddle your papers.” An ugly look came over the fellow’s face. “Threatenin’ me, be yuh?” he bawled. “I’m bad Pete Higgins! Guess yer didn’t know that.” “I don’t care whether your name is Higgins, Wiggins or Spriggins,” replied Tom, snapping his fingers in the chap’s face. “Say, do yer want ter go back ter the village in chunks, ’stead of all in one piece?” “If you don’t stand aside, you’ll land on your neck in that mud-puddle.” “And quick!” rasped Ben. The sottish fellow gave a snarl, for all the world like a mad dog, raised his fists, and started forward. But then he stopped abruptly, froze in his tracks, and stared long and hard into Tom Gordon’s face. “Tarnation,” he said finally, evil intent in his very tone, “I know yer now! Yer the young squirt what Pat Fagan’s lookin fer!” “Out of the way, fellow!” ordered Ben, who was now becoming thoroughly alarmed. “Come on, Tom! Let’s get going.” At these words, their stubby opponent wheeled about with surprising ginger and once more dashed into the Turtle. Before the somewhat astounded boys could take more than a step or two, he was out again. And worse still, far worse, back of him loomed the hulking figure of the dreaded Pat Fagan! The big border ruffian rushed forward, seized Tom’s shoulder in a powerful grasp and began to laugh. “Good fer you, Pete Higgins!” he exclaimed. “It’s sure ’nuff the young varmint what shoved me in the swamp.” “I figgered so, Pat.” “Yep, an’ I aim ter tan his hide in good shape. What luck!” What bad luck, indeed, for Tom Gordon! Fagan showed his jagged, tobacco-stained teeth in an evil grin, while he still held a firm grip upon the boy’s shoulder. A gleam of triumph shone in his eyes.