He felt himself being lifted up, and placed in a more comfortable position, and he was glad of that, for he felt weak and sick. It must be remembered that aside from a little coffee that morning, he had had no breakfast, and that he had had little or no sleep the night before. With a scant supper, a battle with the storm, the anxiety about being lost, and having led his friends, unconsciously enough, into a scrape, it was no great wonder that Tom was not altogether himself. “But who in the world has captured me, and what do they want of me?” Tom asked himself. He had an idea it might, perhaps, be some of the half-breed Indians who had caught him for the sake of his gun and clothing. Or perhaps some trapper or guide was guilty. But if they were after his gun, or what money he carried, or even the fine mackinaw he wore, why did they not take those things and make off into the woods? That would at least leave Tom free. But the men remained on guard over the bound figure of the boy, now sitting upright on a bank of snow. Tom could dimly hear them moving about. They were evidently waiting for someone. “But if they wait long enough, the fellows may come to look after me,” Tom reasoned. “Jack, George, and Bert will know how to deal with these scoundrels.” Then he reflected that the other lads would not know where he was unless he fired his gun, and he could not do that. If one of the others--Bert, Jack or George--found the road, they would not know where Tom was. “Unless the dog could lead me to them, or them to me,” he mused. “I wonder where Towser is, anyhow?” Tom’s last view of the animal had been when it darted into a bush, after some rabbit, perhaps. Then had come the sudden attack. If the dog had returned, Tom did not know of it. He only hoped the animal would “raise some sort of row,” as he put it. But there was no evidence of Towser. Tom could hear only the now low-voiced talk of two men, and the rush of the wind. That it was still snowing he was quite sure, and he wondered what his companions were doing. Suddenly he became aware of some new element that entered into his predicament. One of the men exclaimed: “Here he comes now!” “That’s good!” responded the other, and there seemed to be relief in his tones. “I didn’t see anything of him,” called the newcomer. “I saw the others--they’ve separated, all right, but Fairfield----” “He’s here! We’ve got him!” was the triumphant rejoinder of one of the men near Tom. “Got him good and proper!” “You have! That’s the ticket. Now we’ll see what the old man has to say. I guess he’ll pony up all right.” Tom felt a shock as though someone had thrown cold water over him. That voice! Tom knew now. It was Professor Skeel. He began to understand. He saw the meaning of many things that had hitherto puzzled him. The vagueness was clearing away. The plot was beginning to be revealed.