"Not while you go on springing the same old line of fairy tales on me," retorted the other lad. "Is my father, as you call him, as rich as he was yesterday and the day before? Has he still barrels of money that he's waiting to hand me? Money? Humph! If it hadn't been for money I wouldn't be in the fix I am now. Prescott, I'll tell you something. I've kept the cupboard full by stealing. I'll admit that. But I never stole money before to-day. I went through those dog-houses---what do you call them?" "Do you mean the portable houses of the Bentley party?" asked Dick. "I guess that's the right name. Anyway, I went through those houses to gather in some food, for I was going to leave these woods for good and all." "So I guessed," nodded Dick. "And I came across two twenty dollar bills. Prescott, I've always helped myself to food, because, some way, it always seemed to me that food belongs to the fellow who needs it most. But I had never taken any money, before, from anyone. That's honest---flat! But the twenties looked fine to me. They would carry me a long way on the railroad, and I haven't had any notion to stay here and go to jail for something I didn't do anyway. So I took the money, the grub, too, and stepped off fast through the woods. But, Prescott, you may believe me or not, that money got heavier with every step. Remember, I've never had any practice in stealing money. By the time I'd gone three or four miles that money in my pocket got so heavy that I couldn't drag my feet another step. I took the money out and threw it away. But that didn't help me any, either, so I went back, found the money, and started back this way to put that money back where I got it. I never knew that anything I helped myself to would grow so heavy, but back I had to come with that money. I can't understand what made me feel that way about a little money. Maybe it was" "Conscience," suggested Dick promptly. "Conscience?" repeated Tag wonderingly. "What's that? I know I've heard that word somewhere---some time." Dick was wondering how to make sure of Tag this time. If he shouted to his friends in camp Prescott felt positive that Tag would leap up, knock him down and glide away. Give him a start of a hundred yards in these forests, and Tag Mosher, otherwise young Page, was quite certain to distance and elude all pursuit. CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION As a last resort the high school boy decided to make one more effort to use persuasion. "Tag" he urged, "be a real fellow. Show some grit, and purpose. No matter what you've done, or what you haven't done, show that you've sand enough to get up and walk back into camp with me---to meet your father. Come, get up and come along, like a real fellow with real grit, won't you?" "Get up?" echoed Tag bitterly. "If I could, do you suppose I'd be lying here talking to you now?" "Are you hurt?" cried Dick.