CHAPTER XIII

--THE BLACK CAPS

Harry Ashley, all unconscious of the fact that he was under inspection from others than his aquatic comrades, gave a yell and dove away from the rock.

"Here's something to think about!" said Tom in startled wonderment. "Ben was right--Harry is a boy with a mystery, just as he said."

Tom's first impulse was to advance among the noisy crowd of swimmers, or linger under cover and intercept Harry when he started for home, and challenge him for some explanation.

Then it occurred to him that he had no right to pry into Harry's secrets. At first the case looked strange and grave. At second thought, however, it occurred to Tom that the discovery of the fact that a man whom they called "Donner" was supposedly seeking a certain Ernest Warren, and that Harry Ashley fitted into the affair because he had tattooed marks on his back, was not such an important circumstance after all.

Presumably this wireless operator was the man whose five hundred dollars Harry had accidentally burned up. This set Tom thinking on a new tack.

"'Donner' is certainly very anxious to find Harry, if he really is this Ernest Warren," mused Tom. "He seems willing to pay money to find him. What for--to punish him? Hardly. Then something of importance may have happened to change the face of affairs, and if this would be of any benefit to Harry he ought to know about it. I know what I'll do--I'll get down and tell Ben what I have discovered, and we'll decide together what is best to do in the case."

Tom started to leave the spot. He glanced all about for some trace of the sinister appearing lurker he had seen watching the swimmers, but found none.

"Maybe I am just imagining that fellow was particularly interested in Harry," ruminated Tom. "He is probably some strolling tramp, and was casually watching those antics in the water."

Tom glanced at his watch. It was two miles over to the Dixon place. It was fast getting on to dusk. Tom calculated that he would reach the farm by dusk, have half an hour to spare with Ben, and reach the Morgan mansion by eight o'clock. He had changed his plans since leaving home, his original purpose being to arrive before nightfall at the Morgan home while there was enough daylight left to play a game of tennis with Grace.

It was a short cut to the Dixon place by taking a road through the woods, and Tom kept on planning how he would utilize the moments until he reached Fernwood, and anticipating the usual pleasant time he always had with pretty Grace Morgan. He was just thinking how happily and usefully life was rounding out for him, when there came an abrupt interruption to his pleasing reverie.

Just as he was passing a thick copse where the road turned and high trees on either side shut the highway into dimness and obscurity, there was a rustle in the underbrush.

"Halt!"

A form stepped into view suddenly. It was that of a boy. In his hand he poised a long pole sharpened at the end. This he directed straight at Tom.

"Halt!"

A second figure came quite as magically into view. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth and sixth, and the astounded Tom stared vaguely at a perfect circle formed about him by the sextette.

"Why," he began, turning in a ring and discovering that each one of the group wore a sable-lined hood over his head with slits cut in for eyes, nose and mouth, "I understand now--the Black Caps."

"That's right," responded a voice from behind one of the masks, disguised into great gruffness. "March!"

"March where?" demanded Tom, a half amused smile on his face.

"Don't fool," spoke a second voice quickly. "Get him under cover."

"Yes, someone may come along," spoke another of the masked crowd.

"Now!"

The leader of the gang gave the order. His coterie was well trained. To a man they dropped their spears to the ground, and made a general rush for Tom.

"Hold on, Bill Barber!" said Tom, as he was seized by five pairs of sturdy hands.

"Bill Barber isn't here," declared the former gruff voice.

"What do you want of me, whoever you are?" demanded Tom.

"You come along and see."

"I will not," retorted Tom.

He struck out with his fists and laid two of his assailants low. They were promptly on their feet. Then the united strength of the group was exerted to seize and throw our hero down. He found his arms and feet securely bound by strong ropes.

"Someone is coming," spoke one of the crowd sharply.

"Rush him," ordered the leader.

Tom set up a loud shout.

"The gag," came the quick command.

Tom's outcry was hushed in an instant by the application of an elastic band fastened to a padded stick, which was tightly pressed between his lips. He was lifted bodily and carried away from the road just as a wagon rattled past the spot where he had been confronted by the gang.

The members spoke not a word as, bodily lifting their captive, they bore him helpless on their shoulders through the woods. They proceeded a quarter of a mile, finally halting at a low structure which Tom recognized.

It was the abandoned hut of a man who had passed a hermit-like existence in the densest part of a thicket. Tom was carried inside and placed on the broken floor of the hut, which was covered with dead leaves.

"What's the orders, chief?" asked one of the crowd.

A whispered reply that Tom could not over-hear led to five of the party filing out of the hut like trained soldiers. The sixth, the leader, remained behind for half a minute.

"We're coming back soon," he said. "We'll bring a skull and cross bones when we do. If you'll swear on 'em never to cross our dead line again, maybe we'll leave you go this time. If you don't----"

The speaker aspirated a long low hiss and ground his teeth tragically. Then he, too, disappeared.

Tom had ample time for reflection as he lay alone in the darkness. He could not figure out what the Black Caps were up to. The whole proceeding was freakish, and carried along in the most heroic style of juvenile roysterers aping pirates and outlaws; yet Tom believed there was some definite motive underlying it all. What it was he could not at the moment decide.

A half hour passed by. The Black Caps had apparently retired to a distance. Then the crackling of dry twigs outside the hut announced the approach of someone.

"Hello, there, Tom Barnes!" spoke the owner of a head thrust past the open doorway.

Tom at once identified the tones. They belonged to Mart Walters.

##