"I'll write the note, anyway," Dick insisted. "If I can't do better, I'll put the address as simply the United States, with a request on the envelope for the post-office people to find the right city and deliver the letter." "Go ahead with the letter," urged Tom. "After dinner I'll walk over to Five Corners and mail the letter. Incidentally, I'll make inquiries over there and see whether anyone knows the city in which the Blinders' crowd has its headquarters." So Dick wrote the letter, while others were preparing the noon meal. At one o'clock in the afternoon Tom started, on his round-trip tramp of twenty-two miles. "A trip like that will take the place of training for one half day," Reade explained. Hazelton offered to go with him, but Tom declined on the ground that he could get over ground faster without Harry. It was an hour after dark when Reade returned that night, hot, tired, dusty and hungry. But he had found the correct address of the agency and the letter had started on its journey. "Your supper is all ready," Dick announced. "And I'm ready to meet any supper more than half way," Reade retorted. "Just a minute, until I wash up." The other five boys sat and chatted by the table while Tom ate. "Dan, won't you throw a lot more wood on the fire?" asked Dick, as the meal came to a close. "We ought to have the camp better lighted than this." Greg sprang to help Dalzell. Soon the flames leaped up, throwing their ruddy, cheerful glow over the camp and making dancing shadows beyond under the trees. While they were still chatting over the day's doings, steps were heard, followed by the arrival in camp of two rough-looking, stern-faced men. Dave Darrin sprang to pick up a club. "You boys haven't been doing anything wrong, have you?" questioned one of the men, with a trace of a smile. "Of course not," Dick indignantly replied. "Then you needn't be afraid of us, though I admit that we do look rough," answered the same man, displaying a badge. "We're officers of the law." "What can we do for you, sir?" Prescott inquired more respectfully. "Do you boys know anything about Tag Mosher?" demanded the same speaker. "Son of Bill Mosher?" Dick counter-queried. "The same. Know anything about him?" "Nothing, except that he bothered us a good deal when we were first camped here," Prescott replied. "Do you know him by sight, then?" "We all do." "When was Tag here last?" pressed the officer. "About three days ago," Dick answered. "He stole quite a bit of our food supply." "That's an old trick of that young tough," rejoined the deputy sheriff. "That's how the boy got the nickname of 'tag.' He won't work, and lives on other people's work. Anything that he can say 'tag' to he thinks belongs to him." "Then, in other words, sir," asked Dave Darrin, "Tag Mosher is just a plain thief?"