The prospect was far from pleasant to our hero. In spite of his bravery, he shivered as he saw the gang of masked boys start up a fire over which to heat the tar.

“So you intend to tar and feather me,” he said to the leader.

“You’ve struck it, Jerry Upton.”

“All right, Si Peters, do it, and you shall go to prison, mark my words.”

Jerry had only guessed at the identity of the leader, but he had hit upon the truth.

“Who told you I was”—began Peters, and broke off short. “You’re mistaken,” he went on in his assumed voice.

“I am not mistaken, Si Peters. I know you, and you had best remember what I say.”

“Oh, you’re too fresh, Upton, and we’re going to teach you a lesson,” put in another of the crowd.

“A good coat of tar and feathers is just what your system needs.”

“We’ll paint you up so artistically that, even your own mother won’t know you.”

“Not if I can help it,” muttered Jerry, under his breath.

A great mass of wood had been collected, and this gave a roaring fire and also afforded a good light for the workers.

On each side of the fire a notched stick was driven into the ground. A third stick was laid across the top, just beyond the flames. From this upper stick the pot of tar was suspended by an iron chain.

The heat soon began to tell on the tar. As it softened it could be smelled a long distance off.

“How do you like that smell?” asked Peters of Jerry.

“Oh, it’s a good enough smell,” replied our hero, as coolly as he could.

“Never had a dose of tar before, did you?”

“I haven’t had this dose yet.”

“That’s so, but you soon will have.”

“Maybe not.”

“Oh, you can’t escape us.”

“Not much, he can’t,” put in another, and now Jerry felt sure that the speaker was Wash Crosby.

“We’ll talk about that later, Crosby.”

The masked boy started back and denied his identity. But it was plain to see he was much put out.

“I know you, Peters, Crosby, Banner and Graves,” went on Jerry. “And I’ll discover who you other two fellows are before I leave here, too.”

“Fiddlesticks!” shouted one of the boys by the fire who was stirring the tar.

“Is it getting soft?” asked Crosby.

“Yes.”

“Where is the brush?”

“I’ve got it,” spoke up another, and he held up the stump of an old whitewash brush.

“That’s all right.”

At a signal from Peters the crowd of masked boys withdrew to the side of the fire.

Here a long talk followed. It was so low that Jerry could not hear a word.

Peters was making the crowd solemnly promise that they would not inform upon each other, no matter what happened.

“If we stick together, Upton can prove nothing,” he said. “He has no witnesses.”

“Right you are, Si.”

“We want to get square, and this is the chance of our lives to do it.”

“We can give him the tar and feathers and then leave him tied up in such a fashion that he can get free, but not before we have had a chance to make good our escape and get home and to bed.”

“That’s the way to fix it.”

“It will teach Lakeporters a good lesson,” put in one of the unknowns. “My! but ain’t I down on every one of ’em.”

“And so am I!”

“And I!”

“And I!”

In the meanwhile the young oarsman was trying his best to work himself free of his bonds. He felt that unless he escaped he would surely be tarred and feathered.

He tugged at the ropes around his body, and after a hard struggle he managed to free his left arm.

His right arm followed, although this cost him a bad cut on the wrist, from which the blood flowed freely.

But he gave the wound no thought, and in haste began to work at the rope at his waist.

Now that was loosened, only the one around his knees remained.

He looked anxiously toward the fire. The masked boys were still in deep discussion, and not a single eye was directed toward the prisoner.

Oh, for three minutes more time!

He worked with feverish haste.

And now he was practically free!

Si Peters turned and beheld him as he took a step behind the tree, out of the glare of the fire.

“He has got away, fellows!” he shouted. “After him, quick!”

A yell went up, and the crowd rushed forward.

“He mustn’t escape us!”

“We worked too hard to capture him!”

“See, he is limping! The rope is still fastened to one of his legs!”

Like a pack of wolves after a rabbit they came after Jerry.

Our hero did his best to out-distance them, and he would have succeeded had it not been for the rope around one knee, which caught in a tree root and threw him down flat on his face. In another moment the crowd was on top of him.

They showed him no mercy. Si Peters was particularly brutal and kicked Jerry heavily in the side half a dozen times.

“I’ll teach you to crawl away, you sneak!” he cried. “You can’t fool us in this fashion.”

The kicks stunned Jerry and deprived him of his wind. He fought as best he could, but he was no match for six strong boys.

Again he was overpowered. Then the gang dragged him to the side of the roaring camp fire and threw off their masks.

“Now we’ll strip him,” said Wash Crosby. “The tar is all ready and so are the feathers.”

Jerry’s struggles availed him nothing. His coat and vest were literally ripped from his body, and his shirt followed.

“Give me the brush. I want to give him the first dose,” sang out Si Peters.

The old whitewash brush was handed to the leader. Si dipped it deeply into the pot of hot tar, and approached the young oarsman.

“Now, Jerry Upton, we’ll tar and feather you in spite of your threats,” he said.