“They’ve been here all right,” admitted Bart in a low voice. “What’s to be done about it?”
“I think we ought to see if we can’t find Fenn,” declared Ned. “We ought to follow and see where these Chinese footsteps lead. Maybe Fenn is held a prisoner.”
“That’s what we ought to do,” agreed Frank. “However, it is too late to do anything much now. It will soon be night. I think we’d better get something to eat, sleep as much as we can, and start off the first thing in the morning. Maybe we can trail the smugglers by following the Chinese footprints, and, in that way, we may find—Fenn.”
Frank hesitated a bit over his chum’s name, and there was a catch in his voice. The other boys, too, were somewhat affected.
“Oh, we’ll find him all right,” declared Ned, confidently, to cover up the little feeling he had manifested. “If those smugglers have him, why—we’ll take him away from them, that’s all.”
“That’s the way to talk!” exclaimed Frank. “Now let’s get some grub. What did we shoot all these ducks for?”
The chums soon had a meal ready, but, it must be confessed, the ducks did not taste as good as they expected they would. However, that was more because of their anxiety over Fenn, than from any defect in the birds or their cooking.
Morning came at last, after what the three Darewell boys thought was the longest night they had ever experienced. They only slept in dozes, and, every now and again, one of them would awake and get up, to see if there were any signs of the missing Fenn.
“Poor Stumpy,” murmured Ned, on one occasion, when a crackling in the underbrush had deluded him into the belief that his chum had returned, but which disturbance was only caused by a prowling fox. “Poor Fenn! I hope he’s in no danger!”
If he could have seen Fenn at that moment he would have had good reason for expressing that hope.