“Wait a bit,” suggested Ned. “Let’s see if it’s any of the fellows.”
Bart and Fenn, who were rowing, rested on their oars, and all four boys listened. The noise came nearer. Suddenly there peered forth from the bushes a man who had every appearance of being a tramp.
His face had not felt a razor for several weeks. His coat was in tatters, and his trousers, into which was tucked a ragged blue shirt, were all frayed about the bottoms, and flapped like those on a scarecrow. His hat was a battered derby and on one foot he wore a boot, while the other was encased in a heavy shoe. He looked at the boys for several seconds.
“Hello,” he said at length, in a pleasant voice that contrasted strangely with his disreputable appearance. “Are you boys acquainted around here?”
“Pretty well,” replied Fenn.
“Well, you haven’t seen a short stout man, with a black moustache and black hair, anywhere around here, have you?”
“Did he have a gilt crown on?” asked Ned quickly.
“A gilt crown? No. Why should he wear a gilt crown?” and the tramp affected surprise.
“Oh, nothing, I was just wondering, that’s all,” and Ned winked at the other boys.