Or, who are you? for they all say Fred Hatfield is dead and buried."
"It doesn't matter who I am, Ruth Fielding," said the strange lad, in no pleasant tone.
"Never mind. Come and see Mr. Cameron. Come to the camp. He will help you"
"I don't want his help," replied the boy. "I'll help myself—with this," and he tapped the barrel of the rifle.
"But that belongs to Tom"
"He'll have to lend it to me, then," declared the boy. "I tell you, I am not going to be bound by anybody. I'm free to do as I please. You can go back to that camp. There's nothing to hurt you now."
At the moment Ruth heard voices shouting from the frozen stream. The boys were skating back toward the pond, and had heard the rifle shots,
"Oh, wait till they come!" Ruth cried.
"No. I'm off—and don't any of you try to stop me," said the boy, threateningly.
He slipped on the snowshoes which he had kicked off when he sprang for the rifle, and at once started away from the clearing.
"Don't go!" begged Ruth. "Oh, dear! Wait! Let me thank you."
"I don't want your thanks. I hate the whole
