ave," he said in a strained voice. "Some dirty beggar chopped
us down and searched us from head to foot for something he _didn't_
find."

An icy chill swept through Dawson, and he swallowed hard. It was a
second or two before he could speak.

"Those sealed envelopes, I bet!" he whispered. "We got rid of them just
in time. But, my gosh, Freddy! Who--"

Dawson let the thought go unspoken because it seemed so utterly
incredible.

"Yes, who?" Freddy Farmer echoed, and gave a little shrug of his
shoulders. "Somebody, that's certain. Gosh, he came close to killing us.
When I came to and saw you with your ripped tunic pulled up over your
head and your face pushed down into the dirt, I thought sure you were a
goner. Look, Dave, take off your helmet, if it doesn't hurt too much. I
want to see if it's more than just a bump. If your scalp's been cut, I
can patch it from this pocket Red Cross kit I carry."

But Dawson had already explored under his helmet with very gentle
fingertips. He had two bumps side by side, not over an inch above a
point where two such blows would undoubtedly have paralyzed him for
life, if not killed him instantly. As it was, there were just the two
bumps and no wet or caked blood.

"Just bumps, Freddy," he said, and forced a chuckle. "A couple of pips,
but you know me, Old Iron Head. How about you, though?"

"I'm lucky," Freddy said, and tried to match Dawson's forced gaiety.
"Just one lump, but I'm sure the old noggin will ache for months. We'd
better bear this in mind, Dave. We can't stand another of these
attacks."

"Says which?" Dawson mumbled.

"We couldn't possibly be that lucky twice," the English youth explained.
"Blast this whole business, though! I don't like things I don't
understand. I definitely don't!"

Dave Dawson didn't make any comment on that. He got slowly to his feet,
steeled himself while a dizziness swept through his head, and then began
a methodical search of his uniform pockets. Watching him, Freddy Farmer
waited until he had inspected their contents and had put them back.

"Anything missing, Dave?" he asked.

"Nothing, not even my money," Dawson replied with a note of grimness in
his voice. "So that proves it. Proves it wasn't a stick-up and plain
robbery. That we're both still alive and more or less kicking proves
murder wasn't the big idea, either. They were after something that we
didn't have any more. And--Sweet tripe, Freddy! That was over a couple
of hours ago