“At least four miles,” answered Joel Runnell, “and a very rough road at that. The nearest station is six miles. They couldn’t very well board a freight train that was moving.”
“I don’t believe tramps like to ride much in such freezing weather,” came from Link. “More than likely they have found some sort of a hangout around here, and are living off of what they can pick up, by honest or dishonest means.”
The matter was discussed for a short while, and it was concluded to follow up the footprints until nightfall if no longer.
“We may run across them sooner nor you expect,” said old Runnell.
The tracks led directly through the woods and then toward a rise of rocks which was swept almost clear of snow. Beyond the rocks was level ground, and here was a country road, connecting two small villages of that vicinity with Lakeport.
“We’re getting into civilization,” said Joe. “This feels almost as if we were going home.”
“I don’t want to go home yet,” said Harry.
“Nor I,” came in a chorus from the others.
The tracks led along the roadway for perhaps half a mile, and then turned still further from the lake.
“Well, I declare!” cried Joel Runnell. “Wonder if those chaps went over to Ike Slosson’s house.”