Vainly giving a last look, hoping for some sign, Tom quietly made his way to the skiff, and rowed down the river again and across the lake to camp.
“Cæsar’s cats! but this is a lonesome place!” he exclaimed, as he looked about at the tents. “I never knew what it meant to have a jolly crowd with me before. This is like being a castaway on a desert island. Well, the only thing to do is to keep busy.”
He entered the main tent, intending to get on some of his older clothes and prepare a meal. As he stepped inside the canvas house he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“I’ve had visitors!” cried Tom. “And two-legged ones at that! Someone has been here, running about!”
Well might he say that, for the place was in confusion. The neatly-made-up cots had been pulled apart, the valises and suitcases, of himself and his chums, had been opened, the garments tossed about. Boxes and packages had been searched.
“This is the work of that old hermit, or else Skeel and his two cronies,” decided Tom. “They must have known I’d go away from camp, and they watched their chance to sneak in. Oh! if I had only known it!”
He looked about to see if anything had been taken, but there was no sign of anything missing, though it was hard to tell definitely because of the manner in which things were scattered about.
“I wonder what they could have wanted?” asked Tom aloud, and, having no one to answer it, he replied to his own question.
“It couldn’t have been me,” he resumed, “though they may have done this for spite because they didn’t catch me. No, that would hardly be it. They would have done worse damage if they had done it just because of anger. It was something else. They were searching for something. I have it! The plan I found! That’s what they want! Maybe, after all, it’s the original and not a copy, and they can’t go on with the search without it. That’s it, I’ll wager a cookie! I wonder if I have it safe?”
From an inner pocket he took the piece of paper containing the map.