"We don't know when someone will come along and butt in on our sport." "Two of our crowd can go out as scouts," replied the ringleader.
"They'd better," nodded the adviser, "and even then we'd better take the cart, the old man and these young gents further back into the woods." Neither Dick nor Dave had said anything so far, for they were too sore, and too much exhausted.
At the leader's command two men went down to the road, to watch in both directions.
"Give the whistle---you know the one---if anyone comes along that's likely to spoil the fun," was the ringleader's order.
Reuben Hinman had been deprived of the last dollar in money that he had with him.

Quaking and subdued, the old man obeyed the order to mount his cart and drive the rig farther into the woods.
"Take the young gents along, and see that they behave themselves," directed the ringleader.
Dick and Dave did not yet feel in condition to offer any resistance or defiance.

Even with the two "scouts" out on the road there were still six of the tramps left to take care of them.
The odds looked too heavy for another fight it when the last one had been so unsuccessful.
As Dick and Dave got to their feet and started along, followed and watched by the tramps, Dick tottered closer to his companion, managing to whisper: "We've got to gain time, Dave.

Pretend to be weak---crippled---badly hurt." That was all.

Prescott fell away again without his whisper having been detected by their captors.
Before quitting the spot near the road the ringleader had scattered the campfire so effectually that the embers would soon die out.
A full eighth of a mile back from the road the order was given to Hinman to rein in his horse.
"We're far enough from the road, now, so that we ain't likely to be spotted," said the boss tramp.