All preliminaries were arranged during the afternoon: in the evening,
just before night fell, Dick and Peterson, hidden with their trusty
steeds amongst the saplings about three hundred yards beyond the
toll-bar, awaited the coming of their companions in crime. They had not
long to wait; in a few minutes Jacker Mack, Ted, and Phil Doon came
riding up the dusty track on their brave billies. They were accompanied
by a pedestrian, an interloper, who lurked behind and evidently did not
anticipate a friendly reception. It was Gable.
'He saw us comin' an' he would foller,' explained Jacker.
'Yah!' cried Dick in disgust; 'why didn't you boot him?'
'So I did. Fat lot o' good that done. He otl'y bellered like a bullock,
an' kep' on follerin'. We pretended we wasn't goin' nowhere, but he just
hung round an' couldn't be fooled.'
Dick approached the old man threateningly.
'Clear out!' he said.
Gable put up a defensive elbow and backed away, knuckling his eye
piteously the while.
'Are you goin'?' cried Dick, and kicked Gable just as he would have
kicked any inconvenient and mutinous youngster in the same case.
'You look out whatcher doin',' muttered the old man, skipping about to
avoid the second kick. I'll get someone what'll show you,' he added
darkly.
Dick ran at him with a big stick, but Gable only retreated a few yards.
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