That rather cast a damper over the enthusiasm until one blear-eyed man of fifty observed, knowingly: 

“Well, we don’t need to go alone.  There are other men in Fenton who think the way we do.  We can go down to the woods in force, and pretend that what we want to do comes as a rebuke administered by the citizens of Fenton.”

“Hurrah!” cheered one man who seemed in danger of falling asleep.

“Miller, let us use your telephone,” urged the former speaker.

“No, you can’t,” retorted the liquor seller quickly.  “It’s all right for you men to do whatever you think is right, but you’ve got to remember that I’ve got to be kept out of whatever happens.”

Well enough did the wretch know that half-hearted opposition from him would only fan the flame hotter among the men who considered themselves his friends.

So the messengers were sent to the other drinking places in town.  Word was passed for a night raid “by representative citizens,” as these topers called themselves.

Men of the same turn of mind soon came flocking in from other drinking resorts.

“Don’t talk here about what you’re going to do for the good of the town,” Miller ordered.  “Remember, I’ve got to be kept out of this.  My position is a delicate one, you understand.”

Soon after midnight the disreputable army of vengeance seekers was straggling down the road.  Talking had ceased.  These drink-driven wretches were hunting for the camp of Dick & Co. and they were going to attack it in force.

CHAPTER XXII

UNDER THE STING OF THE LASH

When the crowd reached the camp of the high school boys all was silent there.  From within the tent came the sounds of the heavy breathing of the sleepers.

“Everything is ready, and there isn’t even a dog on the place!” was the exultant word passed back.

“Bunch up!  Get in close and surround the tent,” ordered another voice.  “We want some of you men behind the tent, so that none of the youngsters can slip away from us.  Come along, now.  Don’t talk!  Don’t make so much noise.  Easy, now!”

Thus the figures continued to gather, like so many evil spirits of the night.

Here and there one of the rabble fell over something in the dark, or tripped over a root or stone as he moved about among the shadows.

In the intervals of absolute silence the steady breathing of the six Gridley High School boys could still be heard, until one man in the rabble, less sober than the others, fell over a packing-case, barking his shins and giving vent to a yell of pain.

“What was that?” asked Greg Holmes, waking and rising on one elbow.

Outside all was quiet again.

“Hey, Dave, get up!” Holmes called, shaking the arm of Darry, who lay asleep on the adjoining cot.  “I heard something going on outside.  We’ll both get up, light a lantern, and-----”