They parted in the road where the Watermelon had come upon the big red touring car. Mike and James watched him until he disappeared over the top of the hill, then climbed the wall and made their way through the woods to the little mountain lake.
"We won't get the clothes," said James, "until we have had a talk with the guy and tried to get him into a reasonable frame of mind. It's just likely that he may be somewhat put out."
There was no one in sight as they made their way cautiously to the edge of the lake. The trees grew nearly down to the narrow, pebbly beach and were reflected in the quiet depths of the water. The little brook, tumbling over its miniature waterfall, with a ripple and splash, was the only sound that broke the all-pervading silence. Nothing stirred in the underbrush, neither man nor beast, and James and Mike were about to slip away as quietly as they came when a stick snapped behind them sharply and Mike wheeled.
A man was peering at them eagerly over the tops of a few bushes. His face was white and his teeth chattering. His arms, dimly discerned through the branches, were wrapped around his shivering form with fervor and he was standing gingerly on first one foot and then the other.
"Hello," said Mike facetiously. "Going in?" and he nodded casually backward to the lake.
"Been in," chattered the miserable wretch, trying to control his teeth so that he could say more.
"Oughtn't to stay in too long," advised James solicitously. "Your lips look blue."
"Bad for the heart," said Mike.
"We ain't ladies," added James with delicacy. "You might come out from them bushes."
"Some—some one stole my—my—my clothes," stammered the young man, stepping carefully forth. "Been here—here since this—this morning." He looked sharply at the shabby pair before him, with quick distrust in his bloodshot eyes and added coldly, "Some—some tramp."