“If we happen to run into old P. D. or his enemy there’s going to be an interesting time of it,” observed Dick. “You don’t say a word about that, Charley, but I know you are thinking about it all the same.”
“And why not?” replied Charley. “Of course I’m thinking about it, but what’s the use talking? We have just got to take our chances. When I’m out on an expedition like this I don’t believe in showing the white feather. It isn’t my style nor yours, either, Dick.”
“If it was mine you bet I wouldn’t be here,” [said] Dick, “but the danger is real just the same.”
Charley paddled on until at last they reached the other side of the lake and pulled up their boat on the shore close to the hut.
It still wore the same air of desertion. Dick had left the door partly open and had placed a small pebble on top of it in such a manner that if the door was touched the stone would be sure to fall.
He seized hold of the door and pulled it open, but no pebble fell.
“There’s been some one here!” he exclaimed. “Look, Charley, the floor is all tracked over with alkali since we were here.”
“That’s what, Dick. If it was mud, now, we might guess it was your friend.”
“Ten to one it was Mudd,” replied Dick. “Hello, what’s this?”
In the middle of the long table which occupied the centre of the room lay a paper upon which some words were written, fastened to the table by a rusty old bowie knife which had been driven deep into the wood.