“I see!” thought he. “A frame-up!” And he laughed to himself, his mind going back to early boyhood--to a dilapidated trunk in the attic of his home, containing story-books that his father had owned. He could see them now, with their worn brown covers and crude pictures: “The Luck and Pluck Series,” by Horatio Alger; “Live or Die,” “Rough and Ready,” etc. How he had thrilled over the story of the country-boy who comes to the city, and meets the villain who robs his employer’s cash-drawer and drops the key of it into the hero’s pocket! Evidently some one connected with the General Fuel Company had read Horatio Alger! Hal realised that he could not be too quick about getting those bills out of his pocket. He thought of returning them to “Judas,” but decided that he would save them for Edstrom, who was likely to need money before long. He gave the Greek half an hour to go to sleep, then with his pocket-knife he gently picked out a hole in the cinders of the floor and buried the money as best he could. After which he wormed his way to another place, and lay thinking. SECTION 15. Would they wait until morning, or would they come soon? He was inclined to the latter guess, so he was only slightly startled when, an hour or two later, he heard the knob of the cabin-door turned. A moment later came a crash and the door was burst open, with the shoulder of a heavy man behind it. The room was in confusion in a second. Men sprang to their feet, crying out; others sat up bewildered, still half asleep. The room was bright from an electric torch in the hands of one of the invaders. “There’s the fellow!” cried a voice, which Hal instantly recognised as belonging to Jeff Cotton, the camp-marshal. “Stick ’em up, there! You, Joe Smith!” Hal did not wait to see the glint of the marshal’s revolver. There followed a silence. As this drama was being staged for the benefit of the other men, it was necessary to give them time to get thoroughly awake, and to get their eyes used to the light. Meantime Hal stood, his hands in the air. Behind the torch he could make out the faces of the marshal, Bud Adams, Alec Stone, Jake Predovich, and two or three others. “Now, men,” said Cotton, at last, “you are some of the fellows that want a check-weighman. And this is the man you chose. Is that right?” There was no answer. “I’m going to show you the kind of fellow he is. He came to Mr. Stone here and offered to sell you out.” “It’s a lie, men,” said Hal, quietly. “He took some money from Mr. Stone to sell you out!” insisted the marshal. “It’s a lie,” said Hal, again. “He’s got that money now!” cried the other. And Hal cried, in turn, “They are trying to frame something on me, boys! Don’t let them fool you!” “Shut up,” commanded the marshal; then, to the men, “I’ll show you. I think he’s got that money on him now. Jake, search him.” The store-clerk advanced.