"I think I heard him call himself Billy Dill, and he called that rascal Tag Dutch," said Dave.
"I am not Tag Dutch!" roared the prisoner. "I am—er—my name is William Jones."
"Is it possible?" said Dave. "When I met you last you said your name was Peter Snodgrass, and you were carrying a valise with the initials, W. F. F. on it. I guess you are a regular barometer for changes."
"Oh, don't you try to joke me," was the grumbling answer.
While the boys were waiting they ate their dinner, and Dave did what little he could for the man who had been struck down. He hoped the man would talk some more, but not a word came from his lips.
It was nearly two hours before Roger and Ben returned, bringing with them two officers of the law, a doctor, and a large hand-sleigh. The officers took charge of the prisoner and handcuffed him, and the physician turned his attention to the sufferer.
"A nasty blow," said he, after an examination. "It looks to me as if his skull was cracked. The best we can do is to put him on the sleigh and take him to the hospital."
Blankets had been brought along with the sleigh, and the wounded man was made as comfortable as possible with these. He was propped up in a seat;
