"You'd pay us, I suppose, with money you picked up in some way resembling the trick you played on Dick Prescott." "Well, money's money, ain't it ?" demanded Tip, skeptically.
"Some kinds of money are worse that dirt," growled Greg Holmes.
This was the conversation, swiftly carried on, that Dick heard as he stepped back to his friends.
Scammon was lying on his back on the ground, with Dave seated across his chest.

Greg bent back the wretch's head, holding a short club that the two freshmen had taken away from Tip in the scuffle.
"Where's the other one, Dick ?" gasped Dave, as he saw young Prescott coming back alone.
"He got away," muttered Dick.

"He hit me over the head, and stunned me for a moment, or I'd be holding onto him yet." "Who was he ?" demanded Greg, breathlessly.
"I don't know," Dick admitted.

"I'd give a small part of the earth to know and be sure about it." That admission of ignorance was a most unfortunate one.

Tip Scammon heard it, and the fellow grinned inwardly over knowing that his late companion had not been recognized.
"What are we going to do with this fellow, Dick ?" asked Dave.
"I'm wondering whether he ought to be arrested or not," Dick replied.
"Fellows, I feel mighty sorry for Tip's father." And well might all three feel sorry.