“I let you put these on, but I wish you’d take them off again,” he said, addressing Valden.  “I know I’m bad, and I know I’m tough, but I never had these things on my hands before.  Take ’em off, won’t you?  Please!”

Such submission was tame, indeed.  Deputy Valden, who had never seen young Mosher before glanced sharply at young Prescott.

“This fellow doesn’t seem much like the hardened criminal I’ve been told about,” remarked the officer.

“Did Prescott tell you I was tough?” demanded the prisoner.  “He ought to know!  He had a touch of my style when I was feeling better than I feel to-night.  I suppose I’ve been nabbed for helping myself to a sandwich or two from their camp.”

“Do you demand to know why you’re under arrest?” inquired Deputy Valden.

Tag nodded.

“Well, then,” continued the deputy, “you’re wanted for cracking the skull of a farmer named Leigh.  There’s a doubt if Leigh will live and you may be charged with killing him.”

“I?  Killed a farmer?” demanded Tag, in what appeared to be very genuine amazement.

“Leigh says you’re the chap that did it,” Valden answered.

“I never heard of a man of any such name,” argued Tag.  “Still, if he says I did it, oh, well, he ought to know, and I suppose it will be all right.”

“It’ll have to be all right—–­whatever the courts may do to you, Mosher,” Deputy Valden rejoined curtly.  “Darrin, will you help the prisoner to his feet and lead him back to where the bridge was?  Simmons will expect to find us there when he gets back.”

So Darry and Greg Holmes assisted young Mosher to his feet.  Dave took hold of Tag’s arm, though the latter did not resist, but walked along like one in a dream.

“Want any help, Dick?” asked Greg.

“I believe I wouldn’t object to having a friendly arm to lean on,” Prescott replied.  “I’ve been standing here so long that my hip is stiff again.”

As the leader of Dick & Co. moved down the road, Tag turned in astonishment.

“What’s the matter?” Tag asked, at last.

“We were in an automobile accident, and I was slightly injured,” Dick confessed.

“And you can hardly walk?”

“I can walk only with effort and considerable pain,” said Dick.

Tag Mosher whistled softly.

“My luck is leaving me,” declared Mosher ruefully.  “Prescott, when I saw you and looked you over I didn’t see that you are a cripple.  I thought you were in as good shape as ever.  As for me, I can’t do much to-night, I’m so weak.  I thought that, if I tried to fight, you’d handle me easily enough.  If I ran, I knew I couldn’t run far, and you’d jump on my back and bear me to the ground.  So I thought it easier to let you have your own way with me.  Whee!  I didn’t do a thing but surrender to a cripple that ought to be on crutches!  My luck is gone!”

This last was said with an air of great dejection, as though Tag never looked to have any further pleasure in life.  Presently he muttered, half aloud: