“Then where’s the boat?” asked Jerry. “Has it floated away?”
“It couldn’t have,” insisted Ned. “It was tied too securely.”
“Then she’s been stolen!” exclaimed Jerry, and he ran down to the edge of the river, the others following.
There was no doubt about it, the Dartaway was gone. There was not a sign of the craft up stream or down.
“Some one’s been here all right,” said Jerry. “See those are not our tracks,” and he pointed to the soft mud in which were several prints of large feet which had worn hob-nailed shoes. In the middle of the sole was a design of an arrow, which the maker of the shoes had put on them in big nails, and this device was plainly visible in the soil.
“Well, this is tough luck!” exclaimed Bob. “I’d like to find the man with the arrow shoes.”
“I’d rather find the boat,” said Jerry in a dejected voice. “I wonder what in the world we’re going to do,” and he sat down on the grassy bank. The others, looking sadly at where their beloved boat had been moored, took places beside Jerry.