In front of the hut there smouldered the remains of a fire, and, from some old pots and pans lying about, as well as odds and ends of food scattered around, it was evident that some one had been dining in rough and ready fashion.
“Looks like a camping-out party had been here,” said Jerry. “They weren’t very particular where they stayed though. That hut seems to have seen its best days.”
“More like it’s a tramps’ shack,” observed Ned. “Maybe our friend of the hay barge hangs out here.”
The boys went closer to the fire. There were chickens’ feathers and bones on the ground.
“They lived high, at any rate,” said Bob. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of broiled fowl myself.”
“Whoever was here left their knife behind,” said Bob, stooping over and picking up an expensive one. “Doesn’t look like the kind tramps usually carry.” He turned it over in his hand, and uttered an exclamation.
“Cut yourself?” asked Jerry.
“Look there!” cried Bob, pointing to the silver plate on one side of the handle. On it was carved: “N. Nixon.”
“Noddy’s knife!” came from Ned. “I wonder what he could have been doing here.”