At once a rush was made to the spot where Bumbum had disappeared, and the wood and brush was searched thoroughly for a distance of ten or fifteen rods.
In the meantime Robert Menden had come up, and was gazing in open-mouthed wonder at the man lying in the road.
"Joseph Farvel!" he gasped. "What a meeting!"
"Is this Joseph Farvel, your enemy?" ejaculated Bob.
"The very same, lad. I wonder if he is dead?"
"I don't think so. But he got a bad crack on the head, that's certain."
Joseph Farvel lay in a slight hollow on the road. He had been hit over the left eye by some blunt instrument, probably a club, and the blood was pouring copiously from the wound.
Forgetting that this sour-faced man was his worst enemy, Robert Menden whipped out his handkerchief, soaked it in a nearby pool of water, and bound it about Farvel's head. Then he and old Jacob carried the sufferer to a shady spot under a tree.
In the meantime the others gathered around, and then Don uttered a cry.
"Bob's knife!"
