“Oh, quit! You know! My crullers. I bought ’em to eat when I got hungry, and now they’re gone,” and in proof Bob stood up and turned both coat pockets inside out. “Yes, I see they’re empty,” observed Ned coolly. “But I haven’t got ’em!” “You have so!” “Indeed I haven’t. Search me!” and Ned, with an air of injured innocence, stood up and extended his arms at either side, an invitation for Bob to feel in his pockets. It was an invitation which the stout youth did not ignore, and he felt about Ned’s clothes with thoroughness, and convinced himself that the crullers were, as Ned had declared, not on his person. “Well, you know where they are!” declared Bob. “No, I don’t!” “Jerry does, then!” “What’s that?” asked the tall lad, looking up from his book on aeroplanes, which he and his new acquaintance were going over. Bob explained, and Jerry’s denial was such that the stout lad felt inclined to accept it as final. Especially as he remembered that Jerry had not been near him since the purchase of the food at the lunch counter. “Well, somebody’s got my crullers and I’m going to get ’em back!” exclaimed Bob. “I paid for ’em and I want ’em. A joke’s a joke, but this is too much! Shell out, fellows!” and he looked around at those nearest him. The truth of the matter was that Ned had slyly slipped the bags of crullers out of the two side pockets of Bob’s coat, and had passed them, surreptitiously to two fellow conspirators. And then, as is usual in such cases, the crullers had gone from hand to hand until, reaching the far end of the car, they had been quickly eaten. But Bob did not give up. Satisfied that Ned did not have the pastry on his person, Bob set about a search for it. He walked down the aisle, looking in various seats, and poking his fingers in the pockets of those he knew, until he came to the end of the car. In one of the seats sat a heavily-built youth, whose face was not of a prepossessing type. He had a sort of bulldog air about him, as though “spoiling for a fight,” and he had had little to say to the other recruits. Bob, looking at the coat of this lad, as the garment was spread out over the unoccupied half of a seat, made a grab for something in one of the pockets, at the same time crying: “Here they are! I knew you’d snitched ’em!” and he pulled out a bag, and drew therefrom a cruller. The lad in the seat turned quickly from looking out the window, and, without a moment’s hesitation, sent his fist into Bob’s face. “Maybe that’ll teach you to let Pug Kennedy’s things alone!” he growled. CHAPTER XIII IN THE CAMP Bob, surprised as much by the suddenness of the other’s action as by the violence of the blow, staggered back, his hands going to his bruised face. There was a moment of silence, and then Jerry, who had seen the whole occurrence, cried out in ringing tones: “Here, fellow, don’t you hit him again!”