"How new is that campfire?" asked Dick, of the old miner.
Jack Wumble examined the heap of dead ashes with care.
"I should say not more'n a day—maybe not thet," he answered. "Boys, I reckon we're close on 'em."
"Oh, if only it wasn't so dark and we weren't so tired!" murmured Sam.
"We can't do much in the darkness, and with a storm coming on," returned Dick. "We'll have to wait until morning. But we had better start out directly it is daylight."
While the others were preparing supper, Dick commenced to arrange the shelter for the night. While he was doing this he noticed something white fluttering on the ground in the wind. He picked it up. It was a sheet of paper, evidently a page torn from a notebook.
"Look what I found," he said, coming close to the light of the campfire. He gazed at the sheet with deep interest. "Well, I never! Sam, look at this!" he cried.
"What is it, Dick?"
"I think Tom wrote this. Poor fellow! Isn't it too bad!"
The sheet of paper had been scribbled on with a lead pencil. The writing was in all sorts of curves, and was largely as follows: