"Give the whistle---you know the one---if anyone comes along that's likely to spoil the fun," was the ringleader's order. Reuben Hinman had been deprived of the last dollar in money that he had with him. Quaking and subdued, the old man obeyed the order to mount his cart and drive the rig farther into the woods. "Take the young gents along, and see that they behave themselves," directed the ringleader. Dick and Dave did not yet feel in condition to offer any resistance or defiance. Even with the two "scouts" out on the road there were still six of the tramps left to take care of them. The odds looked too heavy for another fight it when the last one had been so unsuccessful. As Dick and Dave got to their feet and started along, followed and watched by the tramps, Dick tottered closer to his companion, managing to whisper: "We've got to gain time, Dave. Pretend to be weak---crippled---badly hurt." That was all. Prescott fell away again without his whisper having been detected by their captors. Before quitting the spot near the road the ringleader had scattered the campfire so effectually that the embers would soon die out. A full eighth of a mile back from the road the order was given to Hinman to rein in his horse. "We're far enough from the road, now, so that we ain't likely to be spotted," said the boss tramp. "Now, let's see what these young gents can do to amuse us. Maybe they know how to sing and dance." But Dick had sunk wearily to the ground, forcing his breath to come in rapid gasps. "Get up there, younker," ordered the boss tramp. "You've hurt me," moaned Dick, speaking the truth, though trying to convey a stronger impression than the facts would warrant. "And we may hurt you more if you don't get cheerful and help make the evening pass pleasantly," sneered the boss tramp harshly. "Wait till I---get so---I can get my breath---easier," begged Dick pantingly. The boss turned to Darrin. "Young fellow, wot can you do in the entertaining line?" demanded the fellow leeringly. "Nothing," Dave retorted sulkily. "After you've kicked a fellow so that he's so sore he can scarcely move, do you expect him to do a vaudeville turn right away?" "Get 'em on their feet," ordered the boss tramp. "We'll show 'em a few things!" But Dick protested dolefully, sinking back to the ground as soon as the tramp who had hold of him showed a little compassion by letting go of his arm. "Give me time, I tell you," Dick insisted in a weak voice. "Don't try to kill us, on top of such a thrashing as you gave us." "Let go of me," urged Darry still speaking sulkily. "If you want anything better than a sob song you'll have to give me time to get my breath back." As though satisfied that they could get no sport out of the high school boys for the present, the tramps allowed them to lie on the ground, breathing fitfully and groaning.