But, contrary to the expectations of the radio boys, the police were not able to locate Cassey nor any of the rest of the gang. They searched the woods for miles around the old barn about which the boys had told them, even carrying their search into the neighboring townships, but without any result. It seemed as though the earth had opened and swallowed up Cassey together with his rascally companions. If such a thing had actually happened, their disappearance could not have been more complete.
“They must be experts in the art of hiding,” grumbled Bob, upon returning from a visit to the chief of police. “I was certain they would be rounded up before this.”
“Guess they must have made a break for the tall timber,” said Joe.
“Decided, maybe, it isn’t just healthy around here,” added Herb, with a grin.
And then, just when they had decided that Cassey and his gang had made a masterly getaway, the radio boys got on their trail once again.
That very evening, when tuning in for the concert, they caught another of those mysterious, stuttering messages in the unmistakable voice of Dan Cassey!
“Rice, rats, make hay,” was the substance of this message, and the boys would have laughed if they had not been so dumbfounded.
“What do you know about that?” gasped Jimmy. “That old boy sure has his nerve with him.”
“They’re still hanging around here somewhere!” cried Bob excitedly. “They’ve probably got a hiding place that even the police can’t find.”
“Oh, if we could only make sense of this!” exclaimed Herb, staring at the apparently senseless message which he had written down. “If we only had their code the whole thing would be simple.”