“My son ought not to be able to get far away,” went on the father, holding out a handbill.  “I have felt obliged to proclaim a reward of a thousand dollars for the boy’s discovery within a week, with a further thousand if it happens within three days, and still another thousand for his being brought to me within twenty-four hours.”

“Then you can expect results, sir!” Dick went on, brightening.  “Money talks, I’ve heard.”

“And talks in every language,” added Reade.  “Mr. Page, a lot of men who are not police or peace officers will be out hunting for young Mr. Page.  ‘Tag Mosher’ will be more eagerly sought for than ever before in his life.

“I don’t see how Tag has a ghost of a show to get away,” observed Dave Darrin.

“Whew, but I’m thirsty,” remarked Dr. Bentley, going over to the spot where the drinking dipper hung.  “And it looks as though it were my turn to go after water.”

“Is there no water there?” Prescott inquired.

“Not a drop.”

“Then I’ll get some water, doctor,” offered Dick, coming forward and taking up a pail.

He went briskly away to the spring where the boys obtained their water supply.  The spring was some distance from camp.  Dick reached the little glade where the spring lay, and turned down into it.  As he did so he saw a movement of the bushes, as though some animal had crawled into shelter.

“Anyway, it wasn’t anything as large as a bull,” laughed Dick, as he bent over the spring, bucket in hand.  He filled the bucket, then set it down on the ground.

“I wonder what is under those bushes?” he muttered, boyish curiosity coming to the surface.

Prying the bushes apart, stepping forward, he suddenly halted, a cry of astonishment coming to his lips.

“You, Tag?” he questioned, in astonishment, gazing down at the sullen face of the larger boy who lay on his back in the thicket.

“Yes; it’s Tag, and I’m It,” mocked the other.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you to call your friends, the officers.  There’s a reward offered for me, I suppose.”

“Yes; there is,” answered Dick, wondering why Tag didn’t leap up and scurry away.  “And guess who offers the reward?”

“Who?”

“Your father!”

“Bill Mosher?” laughed Tag, despite his sulky air.  “What does Bill offer?  The next dozen of eggs?”

“Tag, Bill Mosher isn’t your father, and he has admitted it.  You were a strange child that came into his care, and he kept you, at first, hoping for a reward.  Your real name is Page, and your real father is now over at camp.  I’ll call him.”

“You may as well,” agreed Tag sullenly.  “But Page is a new name.  Is that what they call the sheriff now?”

“Tag, aren’t you ever going to be serious?” demanded Dick, flushing with eagerness.