the street. If he had he would probably have failed to recognize him, for Mr. Pendergast now wore a tweed steamer-cap, gold glasses, and a short gray overcoat with the collar turned up.

Brick little dreamed that he was being followed as he pushed steadily across town to the banks of the Penobscot River.

Turning parallel with the river, Brick went on until the lights of the town were some distance behind. By the dim glow of the starlit sky he could see that the beach sloped upward to a pretty steep bluff, and that tall stacks of lumber lay in all directions. The sullen slapping of the waves drowned his crunching footsteps.

“It’s all as Tom described it,” he said, half-aloud, as he paused to look about him. “The dug-out ought to be near by, but I can’t see a glimmer of light. Hullo! what’s that?”

A sharp sound had fallen on his ear, and he wheeled around in time to see a dusky figure within ten feet of him.

“Hold on there,” cried a stern voice. “Stop!”

Brick, having started forward, only ran the faster, and in the darkness he collided with a tall stack of lumber. He grabbed the projecting slabs and climbed to the top.

He was now eight or ten feet from the ground, and looking down he saw his pursuer standing directly beneath.

“No use, my lad,” whispered the man. “I’ve got you safe. Pass down that pocketbook.”

With a thrill of surprise, Brick recognized the voice.

“This is nice missionary work, Mr. Pendergast,” he replied. “I’m willing to donate five dollars to the heathen if you’ll be satisfied with that.”

“No chaffing, young feller,” growled the ruffian. “I’m not in the missionary line now. If I don’t get your pocketbook and watch and chain in about ten seconds, I’ll fix you.”

Brick hesitated, and glanced toward the distant lights of the town. There seemed no chance of saving his money. An idea struck him, and he said, boldly:

“I’ve got friends at hand. You’re making a big mistake to stay here.”

“That bluff won’t work,” was the cool reply. “There’s not a soul within half a mile. Fork it over, quick.”

Just then the pile of lumber began to tremble and sway, and down it came with a crash.

Brick escaped injury by an agile leap that landed him on his enemy’s back. They went to the ground together, and rolled clear of the avalanche of planks and snow.

The lad was almost a match for his wiry antagonist, and by a desperate effort he tore loose and ran. Pendergast overtook him, and snatched the collar of the cape-coat. Brick twisted out of the heavy garment and sped on. He had the pocketbook buttoned safely under his jacket.

Threats rang behind him. A pistol cracked shrilly, and the ball whistled by his head. He dashed on through the gloom, panting hard for breath, and shouting hoarsely for aid. Nearer and nearer came the crunching footsteps of his enemy.

Unluckily a boat lay right in the path. Brick spied it at such close quarters that he had no time to swerve aside. He pitched roughly over the gunwale and fell inside. The next instant Pendergast was kneeling on him, and shaking him with savage anger.

“I’ll fix you,” he snarled, as he lifted his shining weapon. “I’ll pay you for this.”

“Don’t!” pleaded Brick.

He threw up his hands, and struggled to ward off the threatened blow.

“Take that,” cried the ruffian.

Brick felt a stunning pain, and immediately lost consciousness.

Brick struggled back to his senses amid strange surroundings. He was lying on a soft bearskin in a small, picturesquely-furnished room. A wood fire blazed in one corner, and a lamp swung from the ceiling.

Three of the walls of the apartment were of hard, polished clay, ornamented with groups of guns, fishing rods and paddles. The fourth was of heavy timber, and contained a door and a shuttered window. Deer and bear robes covered the floor. Here rested two canvas canoes, and there lay a light cedar skiff.

Two lads stood by the fire. One, about eighteen, was tall and well knit, with dark hair and a swarthy, honest face. The other was shorter and thicker, and possibly a year younger.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Brick, as he pulled himself to a sitting position.

The strangers hastened to his side.

“How do you feel?” asked the elder lad. “I was just going for a doctor.”

“I’ll be all right pretty soon,” replied Brick. “I’ve got a thumping headache, though.”

“And no wonder, with a bruise like that over your eye. Do you remember what happened?”

“Yes,” answered Brick, “up to a certain point. But how did I get here?”

“We heard the racket, and ran out with our guns and a lantern. We saw a man jump from a boat down near the water. We chased him a short distance, and he fired at us twice. We found you lying on the bottom with an ugly bruise on your forehead, and between us we got you up here.”

“You certainly saved my life,” declared Brick, gratefully, “and you saved something else, too. This is what the ruffian was after. You scared him off before he could find it.”

He unbuttoned his jacket, and drew out the pocketbook. Then, in a few words, he related the whole adventure to his new friends.

“I’m lucky to escape with a bruise and the loss of my overcoat,” he concluded. “It would have been ten times worse but for you fellows.”

“Here is your coat,” said the younger lad. “We stumbled over it when we were chasing the rascal. Were there any valuables in it?”

“Only a couple of letters from my father,” replied Brick, as he went through the pockets of the garment. “By Jove! they’re gone, though. The thief will find he’s made a valuable haul.”

Brick spoke in jest. He little dreamed what use would be made of the stolen letters, or what a harvest of trouble he was destined to reap from their loss.

“I’m feeling considerably better now,” he added. “I’m glad of it, for I’ll have to be moving soon. It’s getting late, and—— Hullo! something just struck me. I believe you’re the very chaps I’m looking for. This is a queer go.”

The lads exchanged puzzled glances. Possibly they thought that the blow had deranged Brick’s mind.

“I’ll bet anything your names are Jerry Brenton and Hamp Foster, and this is the dug-out in the bluff,” resumed Brick. “Am I right?”

The boys nodded in open-mouthed wonder.

“I’m Jerry Brenton,” admitted the elder.

“And Hamp Foster is my name,” added his companion, “but I never saw you before.”

“Of course you didn’t,” declared Brick. “Do you fellows remember Tom Fordham, the chap from New York that spent a vacation here two summers ago, and had such jolly times with both of you?”

A light broke on the boys.

“We remember Tom,” they exclaimed, with enthusiasm.

“And did you ever hear him talk of his best chum, Brick Larkins?”

“Often,” replied Hamp. “But you ain’t——”

“Yes, I am, too. I’m Brick Larkins, and I’m awfully glad to meet you fellows. The way I come to be here is this: Tom and I entered Columbia College last fall, and a couple of weeks ago I got into a scrape and was dropped for a term. I wasn’t going to spend the time on a lot of musty books, so I concluded I’d come up to Maine, and go deer hunting. My folks are in Europe, and a lawyer down in New York is my guardian