“I’m growing disgusted,” muttered Dave, “with the stupid way that we let that fellow carry off all of our property.  It begins to look as though we ought to camp in one of our own back yards, where our parents can keep a watchful eye over us and protect us!”

There could be no doubt that Darry was completely angry.  Had he encountered young Mosher at that moment he would have “sailed into” the thief with his fists, regardless of any consequences that might follow.

“Well, shall we go on hunting for him?” demanded Dick.

“It’s just as Darry says,” offered Tom, “I’m willing to remain out in this weather if Dave wants to.”

“Oh, what’s the use?” grumbled Dave.  “That fellow knows the woods a hundred times better than we do, and he has made his get away.  Did you leave anyone back at the camp?”

“Dan and Harry are there,” nodded Tom.

“We may as well join them,” sighed Dave.  So the party headed toward camp.

Just as they stepped out into the clearing, they sighted a rubber-coated party of three men entering the clearing from the direction of the road.

“Why, that must be our friends, Hibbert, Colquitt and Mr. Page!” announced Prescott, halting, then running forward.  “They must have gotten our note at last.  Oh, Mr. Hibbert!”

The three travelers waved their hands.  Then it was the oldest of the trio who ran at top speed in an effort to reach Prescott quickly.

“My boy!” panted Mr. Page, seizing Dick by the shoulders.  “You have found him?  We received your note this morning, and have been breaking the speed laws ever since in our effort to get here.  My boy!  You know where he is!  Perhaps he is now one of your own party?  You have told him, and have kept him here against my coming?”

“No, sir; he’s not here just now,” Dick answered, shaking his head.  “But come into the tent, sir.  There is a lot to tell you.”

“I can hardly contain myself to wait for the news!” cried the eager father tremulously.

Nevertheless, silence was preserved until the tent had been entered.  Mr. Page, Hibbert and Colquitt were given seats on camp stools, some of the boys finding seats on empty boxes.

“Now, my boy—–­my son!  Tell me all about him,” pleaded Mr. Page.  “Is he well?  Does he know that I am looking for him?”

“I have hinted to him,” Prescott answered, “that he is not the son of the man whom he has grown up to regard as his father.  I have told him that you were looking for him, and-----”

“Oh, my boy!” cried Mr. Page.  “Was he pleased—–­or even curious?”

Prescott swallowed hard, twice, and did some rapid thinking, ere he went on, with all faces turned toward him: 

“Mr. Page, if this boy turns out to be your son-----”

“Describe him to me—–­minutely!” ordered the father.

Dick fell into a personal description of Tag Mosher.  Others, as they now watched Mr. Page closely, felt that Tag must be his son.  The description, as to complexion, features, hair and eyes, all tallied closely with Mr. Page’s own appearance.