“That’s just what I do mean,” answered Ned. “Ants don’t act that way without some reason,” and he pointed to a straggling column of the insects, which were emerging from a crack in the floor, advancing to a spot beneath the table, and hurrying back again to the crack as though time were a matter of supreme importance to them.
“They’ve got a nest somewhere under the floor,” remarked Tommy. “Look! They’re carrying their eggs in their mouths!”
Ned was on hands and knees poking with the blade of his jack-knife among the hurrying ants at the head of the column. “That was a good guess of yours, Fatty,” he laughed, “only it happens that in this particular case what they’re carrying isn’t eggs.”
“What is it then?” demanded Beals.
“Bread crumbs,” was the quick reply, “and there’s more of ’em on the table.”
It needed but a moment’s investigation to confirm Ned’s statement.
“Somebody ate a meal here awhile ago—that’s quite evident,” declared Dick, excitedly.
“Yes, and not so very long ago either,” supplemented Rogers. “This hustling bunch of ants would carry away half a loaf of bread in a few hours.”
“Well, supposing somebody did eat here—or supposing they slept in that bunk Red is so keen about. What business is it of ours? Where’s the proof of any connection between them and our affair at Coleson’s?” demanded Dave Wilbur. “I’m going to take a snooze in the car till you ghost-getters find something more exciting than a rusty stove, a tumbledown bunk and a flock of black ants!” and with these words, he lounged out of the door.
“I guess maybe Weary’s more than half right,” admitted Beals, ruefully. “Confound him though; I wish we’d had him out at Coleson’s that night!”