The three rolled over and over in a confused heap.  Tom felt a stinging blow on the side of his head, which made scores of stars dance before him in the darkness, but he never relaxed his grip on the man’s collar.  Ralph, too, was pounded and battered and choked by a powerful hand at his throat.  Suddenly there was an audible rip, something gave way in Tom’s hands, and the man, hurling the two lads from him with a frantic lunge, got to his feet and dashed out through the kitchen.  Before Ralph and Tom could recover themselves, they heard him running down the road, just outside the window, at full speed.

“Great Scott! he’s gone! he got away from us!” ejaculated Tom, in disgust.  “Where are you, Ralph?  Where’s a light, a match?”

“Here I am!” Ralph answered, scrambling to his feet.  “What on earth has Art been doing all this time?  Didn’t he hear the rumpus?”

“You bet I did!” exclaimed Arthur, coming into the room.  “I heard your yells, and I ran downstairs after Tom, but—–­but I stumbled into the parlor, thinking the fight was in there.  Then I heard one of these dining-room chairs being knocked over, and I rushed in-----”

“You were just a minute too late!”

Ralph groped for a matchbox on the mantel-shelf, struck a light, and applied it to the wick of the lamp.  When the room was again visible, he told his friends what had happened.

“I don’t know why he broke into this house; there’s no money here,”
added Ralph, “unless-----” He stopped short with a gasp, and,
going over to a wall cupboard, opened one of the drawers.   “Gone!”
he cried.   “The money I got for those last pelts!   It’s gone, before
I had time to put it in the bank!   The thief has taken it!”

“Who could it be?” asked Arthur, after a brief, sympathetic silence.

“I can’t guess.  Tim Meadows, the man who helped me with the plowing last fall, was too honest to—–­no, it couldn’t be Tim!  Perhaps—–­ what’s that you’ve got in your hand, Tom?”

With a start, Tom looked down.  Clutched in his right hand was a fragment of a man’s coat collar and the shreds of a green and yellow striped tie.

“It’s a clew!” said he, with the air of a professional sleuth.

CHAPTER VII

BOY SCOUT DETECTIVES

On one of the fine courts back of the big summer hotel at Oakvale an exciting game of tennis was drawing to a close.  The players were two patrol leaders of a troop of Boy Scouts who were awaiting the arrival of “Chief” Denmead, their Scout Master, before going over to Pioneer Lake for the opening of camp.  Walter Osborne, of the Hawk patrol, and Donald Miller, leader of the Foxes were very evenly matched.  The latter was conceded to play the steadiest, surest all-around game, though Walter frequently surpassed him in single shots or astonishing rallies.

That the set had been a hotly contested one was shown by the score in games being 9 to 8 in favor of Miller.  If he could make the next game, the set would be his, and with it the championship of the troop.  He was counting on the fact that Walter was apt to go to pieces at a critical moment; this helped to keep the playing fairly even.