Thus adjured, the Margate twins and Dan Earl made another pained effort, while Jimmie Trescott manoeuvred to cut off a retreat. But, to tell the truth, there was a boyish law which held them back from laying hands of violence upon little Phelps under these conditions. Perhaps it was because they were only playing, whereas he was now undeniably serious. At any rate, they looked very sick of their occupation. "Don't you dare!" snarled the Phelps boy, facing first one and then the other; he was almost in tears--"don't you dare touch me!" The chieftain was now hopping with exasperation. "Oh, seize him, can't you? You're no good at all!" Then he loosed his wrath upon the Phelps boy: "Stand still, Homer, can't you? You've got to be seized, you know. That ain't the way. It ain't any fun if you keep a-dodgin' that way. Stand still, can't you! You've got to be seized." "I don't _want_ to be seized," retorted the Phelps boy, obstinate and bitter. "But you've _got_ to be seized!" yelled the maddened chief. "Don't you see? That's the way to play it." The Phelps boy answered, promptly, "But I don't want to play that way." "But that's the _right_ way to play it. Don't you see? You've got to play it the right way. You've got to be seized, an' then we'll hold a trial on you, an'--an' all sorts of things." But this prospect held no illusions for the Phelps boy. He continued doggedly to repeat, "I don't want to play that way!" Of course in the end the chief stooped to beg and beseech this unreasonable lad. "Oh, come on, Homer! Don't be so mean. You're a-spoilin' everything. We won't hurt you any. Not the tintiest bit. It's all just playin'. What's the matter with you?" The different tone of the leader made an immediate impression upon the other. He showed some signs of the beginning of weakness. "Well," he asked, "what you goin' to do?" "Why, first we're goin' to put you in a dungeon, or tie you to a stake, or something like that--just pertend, you know," added the chief, hurriedly, "an' then we'll hold a trial, awful solemn, but there won't be anything what'll hurt you. Not a thing." [Illustration: "FROM THIS BOOT HE EMPTIED ABOUT A QUART OF SNOW"] And so the game was readjusted. The Phelps boy was marched off between Dan Earl and a Margate twin. The party proceeded to their camp, which was hidden some hundred feet back in the thickets. There was a miserable little hut with a pine-bark roof, which so frankly and constantly leaked that existence in the open air was always preferable. At present it was noisily dripping melted snow into the black mouldy interior. In front of this hut a feeble fire was flickering through its unhappy career. Underfoot, the watery snow was of the color of lead.