he dragged himself to the crowd, followed by Sam.
"And how's Sam?" questioned Tom, turning to his younger brother.
"Oh, I'm all right—if it comes to fighting."
"And you, Dick?"
"I think I can do something—at least, I am willing to try."
Breakfast—a rather scant meal—had just been disposed of, when Martin Harris uttered a shout.
"They want to do some talking," he announced.
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Dick.
"They are hoisting a white rag."
"Sure enough!" ejaculated Tom, as he pointed to a flag of truce which Dan Baxter was holding aloft, fastened to an oar. "What do you make of that?"
"They want to make terms," laughed Sergeant Brown. "I reckon things are coming our way at last."
"Do we want to talk to them?" asked Tom.
"Let us make them surrender, and do the talking afterward," came from Sam.
"It won't hurt to let them talk," said the police sergeant. "We can do as we please, anyway, after they are done."
The matter was discussed for a moment, and
