Jake threw up his hands. “Listen! It’s plain we’ve got to tell you everything. Mr. Burk was put in jail for being a thief, but he didn’t steal the necklace. If we can get to Canoe Mountain Lodge, he thinks we can prove that he’s innocent. And we’ve got to get there! Now do you savvy?”
“Thad’s wad I thought all the tibe,” nodded Sherlock sagely. “I said Bister Burk was all right, and I probise to help if I cad. A-choo!”
“Well,” said Jake, “you can help us a lot—— Jiminy, what’s that?”
It was small wonder that Jake was startled. A sound had broken the stillness of the forest, a chilling, heart-gripping hullabaloo from the north, toward Lenape—the high belling howl of a pack of hounds on a warm trail.
“Dogs!” Burk clenched his fists. “By heaven, they’ve got bloodhounds out!” His pallid face went whiter still.
“Bloodhounds! You mean—they’re pointing out our trail last night?”
“Yes—listen!” It came again, the terrifying chorus of their sharp-nosed pursuers. “They can’t be far off! Boys, we can’t stay here!”
“But—where will we go?” said Jake, shakily. “If Jerry comes back here, he’s sure to be caught!”
“Can’t help that!” Burk was gathering together their few belongings over his arm. He ran to the door, and cooked his ear up the trail. “Come along!”
Sherlock Jones, at the first awesome baying of the pack, had given himself up for dead. Bloodhounds! He struggled weakly to his feet, found Jake pulling his arm, leading him toward the door.