Then Jack Rutter, a big splotch of red on the left sleeve of his shirt, rode hard into camp.
"Reade," he shouted, "we're ambushed! Hidden scoundrels have been firing on us." "You've ordered all the men in ?" called Tom, as Rutter reined up beside him.
"Every man of them," returned Jack.

"Poor Reynolds, of the student party, is rather seriously hit, I'm afraid.

Some of the fellows are bringing him in." "You're hit yourself," Tom remarked.
"What?
That little scratch ?" demanded Rutter scornfully.

"Don't count me as a wounded man, Reade.

There are some firearms in this camp.