was too many for him. In a few minutes he was securely fastened to a tree, not far from the camp-fire, which was replenished from time to time.
"Now for the judgment!" called one of the masked lads, in what he meant to be a sepulchral tone. "What is the charge against the prisoner? Brother Number One of the Deep Forest Throng, what is your accusation?"
"He's a regular snob, that's what's the trouble," answered Andy Foger, though whether he was "Brother Numer One," did not appear. "He's too fresh and—and"
"I'll make you wish you felt fresh when I get hold of you, Andy," murmured Tom.
"Quiet!" cried a tall lad. "What's the next charge?"
"He keeps an old colored man on guard at his place," was the answer, and Tom had no difficulty in recognizing the voice of Sid Holton. "The coon throws whitewash all over us. I got some of it."
"You wouldn't have, if you'd minded your own business," retorted Tom. "It served you right!"
"What is the verdict on the prisoner?" asked one who seemed to be the leader.
"I say let's tar and feather him!" cried Andy
