“Yes!  Get up and come out!” jeered a voice near the tent door.  “Come out and have a look at us.  The reputable citizens of Fenton are to chase you out of town—–­and we’ll do it, after we get through with teaching you manners!”

“Fellows!  Hustle!” shouted Greg, leaping from his cot.  “Get ready for trouble.  All the topers and loafers who ever knew Miller are outside to avenge the beating that Miller received from Dick!”

“We’ll show you!” came a hoarse yell, and then the foremost ruffians in the crowd surged in through the tent door.

But Dave had succeeded in lighting a lantern, and this he took time to hang from a hook on the nearest pole.

Five boys clad only in their pajamas faced this angry rabble.  Dan Dalzell slept through the confusion until Reade, in passing him, hauled him from bed.

“What are you men doing here?” thundered Reade, striding to the head of the little group of defenders.

Dick was now beside him like a flash.

“You fellows get out of here!” Prescott ordered, his eyes flaming.

“We’ll get out when we get ready!” came the hoarse answer.   “Now,
friends, show these young imps-----”

But that speaker got no further, for a blow from Tom’s fist brought him to the ground.

All six of Dick & Co. were now on the fistic firing line.

For a few moments they carried all but consternation to their opponents.  As they were forced back from the doorway, however, more and more of the mob poured in.

The very weight of numbers was bound to count against Dick & Co. who were likely to suffer severely at the hands of the miscreants.

Just then there came a flash across the canvas of the tent.  The light had been thrown by a swiftly-moving automobile.  There was another automobile directly behind it.  Both cars came to a stop at the roadside, while from them leaped more than a dozen men.

These men were armed—–­each with a horsewhip.  In an instant the invaders found them selves assailed from behind.

Whish! slash! zip!

In another instant all was uproar.  Yells of pain from the mob rent the air, for these latest arrivals were laying about them with their horsewhips with an energy worthy of a good cause.

“Here, you, Andy Hartshorn.  Stop that!  Don’t you hit me!  I know you, and I’ll have the law on you!” shrieked one of the frightened wretches.

“He who goes to law should have his own hands clean,” quoth Farmer Hartshorn, as he dealt the fellow a stinging blow on the legs.

Those of the crowd outside the tent fled in every direction, hotly pursued, and again and again they were stung by the lashes.

Those of the invaders still in the tent were now in a panic to get out and away.  As they dashed through the doorway they felt the slashing of horsewhips, while Dick Prescott and his chums hammered them from the rear.