“Well, there’s no good wasting time talking about it,” declared Bart. “What we want to do is to find Fenn. Then we’ll know exactly how it was.”
“That’s right; save our breaths to make speed with,” added Ned.
Though the boys were not lagging on the trail, they increased their pace until they were going along at a dog trot, which carried them over a considerable space in a short time, yet was not too tiring. They caught occasional glimpses of the marks left by the feet of the Chinese and the white man, as well as prints of Fenn’s shoes.
“There they go, up that hill!” exclaimed Ned, who, for the time being, was in the advance.
“Who? The men?” called Bart quickly.
“No, the footprints. Come on,” and he led the way up the little hill, up which Fenn had hurried the day previous, with such disastrous results. Fortunately the pace was beginning to tell on Ned, and, as he reached the summit, and started down the other side, he slowed up. It was to this circumstance that he avoided stepping right into the hole of the shaft, down which Fenn had taken that queer-sliding journey.
“Look here!” yelled Ned, so excitedly that his two companions fairly jumped up to gain his side, thinking he must have come upon either Fenn or one of the men. “Somebody has fallen down that hole!”
That was very evident, for the fresh earth on the edges, the scattered and torn clumps of fern, and the general disturbance about the mouth of the pit, showed that all too plainly.
“See!” suddenly exclaimed Bart. “There’s his hat!” and, turning to one side he picked it up from the ground, where it had fallen when poor Fenn took his tumble. “This shows he was here.”
“We were sure enough of that before,” said Frank, “but it certainly does seem to indicate that Fenn went down there. I wonder whether he fell, or whether those men thrust him down?”