“Thad, it’s up to you to claim that coat now, so we can evacuate this camp,” observed Smithy, who was observed to be pinching his nose with thumb and forefinger, as though the near presence of the tattered hoboes offended his olfactory nerves; for as has been said before, the Smith boy had been a regular dude at the time he joined the patrol, and even at this late day the old trait occasionally cropped out.
Thad looked around at his comrades, and somehow when they saw the smile on his face a feeling bordering on consternation seized hold of them.
“What is it, Thad?” asked Davy Jones solicitously.
“Yes, why don’t you tell us to get what we came after, and fly the coop?” demanded Giraffe, who did not fancy being so close to the ill-favored tramps much more than the elegant Smithy did.
“There’s nothing doing, fellows,” said the acting scout master, with an eloquent shrug of his shoulders that carried even more weight than his words.
“What!” almost shrieked Step Hen, “do you mean to tell us that we’re on the wrong trail, and that neither of these gents is the one we want, Wandering George?”
“That’s just what ails us,” admitted Thad; “we counted our chickens before they were hatched, that’s all. Stop and remember the descriptions we’ve had of this Wandering George, and you’ll see how we’ve been barking up the wrong tree!”
All eyes were immediately and eagerly focused on the faces of the two wondering hoboes. At the same time, no doubt, there was passing through each boy’s mind that description of the man who had gone off with the faded army overcoat, and which had been their mainstay in the way of a clew, while following the trail.
CHAPTER III.
WHEN BUMPUS CLIMBED OVER THE FENCE.
A brief silence followed these words of the patrol leader. Then the boys were seen to nod their heads knowingly. It was evident that, once they had their suspicions aroused by Thad, every fellow could see what a dreadful mistake had been made.