"The dog may be running yet, and we might never get within ten, or even twenty, miles of him.

Or, the officers may have caught and killed the brute by this time.

Or, the mastiff might bound at us from the woods at any moment now." "Whether we go back or keep on, we're fairly likely to meet the mad dog," suggested Tom.

"Mr.Chairman, I rise to move, sir, that we cut clubs at once, and do the rest of our talking afterwards!" "The motion is seconded and carried," called Dick, darting into the woods.

"Come on and find the clubs." Less than forty seconds afterwards each of the six boys was cutting a stout sapling, which he forthwith trimmed.
"I believe I could kill anything but an ox with this," observed Reade, eyeing his bludgeon.
"Look out!" called Danny Grin, as if in alarm.
In a twinkling Tom dropped his club, dashed at a young oak tree and began to climb, thinking that the dog had suddenly appeared.
"Stop that nonsense, Dan---and everyone of you!" called Dick sharply.
"Let no one knowingly give any false alarms, or we might disregard a real warning when it comes." Tom sheepishly dropped to the ground, picked up his cudgel, then gazed at Dalzell with a look that had "daggers" in it.
"I'll owe you one for that, Danny Grin," Reade remarked, "and I'm always careful about paying my debts." "Now that we have our clubs," suggested Dick, "let's get back to the road and discuss what we're going to do." "Surely," hinted Dave, "we can find some other road and keep on our way." "Undoubtedly," Greg nodded.