“The yellow vest,” said Data.

There was no need to explain what he meant. Lying in the bottom of the boat like a drowned cartoon character was the Goofy costume from the first photograph–the one taken outside the Hall of Presidents when they had encountered the maintenance worker who also turned out to be the man in the rowboat.

The other man in the boat must have been the person inside this Goofy costume. It explained why the first Goofy had been so anxious to avoid the Screech Owls. It did not explain, however, what he had been up to at the Hall of Presidents.

“We better talk to Muck,” Travis said.

“We’ll have to take this back with us,” said Andy.

“L-L-Look there!”

It was Nish, and there was real fear in his voice. Travis looked up with everyone else and saw that Nish was pointing to the beach. The beautiful young woman was there in a bathing suit. She must have come down for a swim, but she had turned back and was running toward the path.

“She saw us!” said Nish.

“Where’s she going?” Data asked.

“To get the others!” Travis said.

“Let’s hurry!” warned Lars.

With Andy rowing strongly and Simon and Travis holding onto the rowboat’s transom again and kicking as hard as they could, the boys raced to shore. Travis was trying to picture the layout of the camp. The quickest trail back to the Owls’ campsite would take them right past the campsite of the Goofy impersonators–they couldn’t chance that. But there was another, longer, trail that skirted the campsite and ended up by the showers, which were close to the Owls’ site.

“We’ll go back by the shower trail!” Travis shouted up into the rowboat.

“Got you!” Andy called back.

As soon as Travis’s flippers touched the bottom, he stopped swimming and pushed. Simon did the same. Andy gave one final dig with the oars and the rowboat ground hard onto the beach. The boys scrambled to get out, Andy grabbing the Goofy head and Lars scooping up the body of the costume for the run back. Travis kicked off his flippers and grabbed them.

“This way!” Travis called.

With Travis leading the way, the Owls raced toward the head of the second trail.

“Hey!”

The shout came at them like a gunshot. It was a man’s voice, deep and angry. None of them had to turn to see who it was. They began to run even faster.

“Hey! You kids! Wait a minute!”

Another man’s voice, this one with fury in it.

“Drop that if you know what’s good for you!” the first man yelled.

Travis could hear the men running. They were well behind the Owls, but they were fast and, unlike Travis anyway, weren’t tired from all that diving and swimming.

The men were gaining, quickly.

Up ahead, Andy rounded a sharp turn in the trail, hit some mud, and slipped down on his side, the Goofy head spilling into the bush. He got up, scrambling and limping. Nish, empty-handed, reached out and scooped up the head. Lars was well in front with the rest of the Goofy outfit.

Travis’s snorkelling equipment was slowing him down. He tossed the flippers and mask and ran as hard as he could. He could feel his chest tighten. He turned his head briefly–just enough to see how far back his pursuers were–and in an instant he knew they were going to catch him.

This was real terror, true terror–not the manufactured terror of a ride. He felt like he was going to burst into tears like a little child. What would they do to him? Kill him?

The trail widened. He was almost home, but he knew that he wouldn’t make it; one of the men was now so close behind he could hear his breathing. He tried one final burst.

The trail curled around a large sycamore tree, the moss hanging down from the lowest branches like a curtain. Travis recognized the tree. Once beyond it, he would be able to see the showers. There was the smallest chance he’d make it, if he could just dig down a bit more and come up with yet one more burst of energy.

But he had nothing left. He was exhausted, beaten, defeated. The man had him. All he could do was make it to the tree and, perhaps, a few more feet along the trail, and hope that someone would see him being captured.

As he rounded the tree he sensed movement, a quick blur, to his right, then the sound of two heavy objects coming together hard.

“OOOOFFF!” came the sound from behind.

Travis turned just in time to see the maintenance worker flying through the air, turning a half somersault before crashing, flat on his back, into the low shrubs and mud to one side of the trail.

Standing between Travis and the fallen man, leaning over slightly with his hip stuck out, was Muck.

The second, smaller man was coming up fast and had seen what Muck had done to his partner. He was tired, his eyes wide in surprise, and he all but ran into Muck as he rounded the tree.

Muck stood his ground, both fists clenched. The second man put his head down and lunged, blindly, to tackle Muck around the waist.

Muck pulled back his right fist, took aim, and with one punch sent the second man into the bushes on top of the first, who was flailing desperately in the mud, gasping for breath.

Travis turned back up the trail. Mr. Cuthbertson and Mr. Dillinger were running toward him. Right behind them was Lars, who had been well ahead of the pack in the race back to the Screech Owls’ camp. He must have run into Muck first and sent him back to rescue Travis.

Travis’s chest was killing him. He had no breath. He couldn’t even stand. He slipped to his knees, choking and coughing. Muck came up to him, ruffed his wet hair with one big hand and put the other on his shoulder.

“Nearly had you, didn’t they?” Muck said with a bit of a chuckle.

Travis tried to answer, but could say nothing. He gasped for air. He put a hand to his forehead and it slid right off. He was wet with sweat.

The man with the shaved head was rolling about on his back, trying to get up. He had got his breath back, but it was too late; Mr. Dillinger stood over him, waiting. Mr. Cuthbertson was watching the second man, who was out cold from Muck’s single punch.

The trail was filling with people now. They were running from everywhere: the showers, campsites, other paths. A truck with two men in military uniforms was pulling up as close to the trail as it could come, lights flashing.

The other Owls were first to reach the group. Andy and Nish in the front, Simon and Data right behind them. The rest of the Owls–Sarah and Jesse in the lead–were just coming onto the far end of the path, running hard to see what all the commotion was about.

Sweat was pouring off Nish’s face. But he was laughing.

“Great check!” he said to Muck.

Muck couldn’t help himself: he grinned.

“You said the hip check was a lost art!” Nish said.

“It is,” Muck answered.

“Yeah, but you also said there was no place in the game for fighting, didn’t you?”

Nish grinned like he thought he had Muck. But he didn’t.

“This isn’t a game, son.”