“What can it be?” whispered the boy.
“Oh, let's go back,” begged the girl.
“And go along to father with Burton?” asked Bridge.
The girl trembled and shook her head. “I would rather die,” she said, firmly. “Come, let's go on.”
The cause of their perturbation was imprinted deeply in the mud of the pathway—the irregular outlines of an enormous, naked, human foot—a great, uncouth foot that bespoke a monster of another world. While, still more uncanny, in view of what they had heard in the farm house during the previous night, there lay, sometimes partially obliterated by the footprints of the THING, the impress of a small, bare foot—a woman's or a child's—and over both an irregular scoring that might have been wrought by a dragging chain!
In the loft of his father's hay barn Willie Case delved deep into the small red-covered volume, HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE; but though he turned many pages and flitted to and fro from preface to conclusion he met only with disappointment. The pictures of noted bank burglars and confidence men aided him not one whit, for in none of them could he descry the slightest resemblance to the smooth faced youth of the early morning. In fact, so totally different were the types shown in the little book that Willie was forced to scratch his head and exclaim “Gosh!” many times in an effort to reconcile the appearance of the innocent boy to the hardened, criminal faces he found portrayed upon the printed pages.
“But, by gol!” he exclaimed mentally, “he said he was The Oskaloosie Kid, 'n' that he shot a man last night; but what I'd like to know is how I'm goin' to shadder him from this here book. Here it says: 'If the criminal gets on a street car and then jumps off at the next corner the good detective will know that his man is aware that he is being shadowed, and will stay on the car and telephone his office at the first opportunity.' 'N'ere it sez: 'If your man gets into a carriage don't run up an' jump on the back of it; but simply hire another carriage and follow.' How in hek kin I foller this book?” wailed Willie. “They ain't no street cars 'round here. I ain't never seen a street car, 'n'as fer a carriage, I reckon he means bus, they's only one on 'em in Oakdale 'n'if they waz forty I'd like to know how in hek I'd hire one when I ain't got no money. I reckon I threw away my four-bits on this book—it don't tell a feller nothin' 'bout false whiskers, wigs 'n' the like,” and he tossed the book disgustedly into a corner, rose and descended to the barnyard. Here he busied himself about some task that should have been attended to a week before, and which even now was not destined to be completed that day, since Willie had no more than set himself to it than his attention was distracted by the sudden appearance of a touring car being brought to a stop in front of the gate.
Instantly Willie dropped his irksome labor and slouched lazily toward the machine, the occupants of which were descending and heading for the Case front door. Jeb Case met them before they reached the porch and Willie lolled against a pillar listening eagerly to all that was said.
The most imposing figure among the strangers was the same whom Bridge had seen approaching the Squibbs' house a short time before. It was he who acted as spokesman for the newcomers.
“As you may know,” he said, after introducing himself, “a number of crimes were committed in and around Oakdale last night. We are searching for clews to the perpetrators, some of whom must still be in the neighborhood. Have you seen any strange or suspicious characters around lately?”