"Then that settles it," announced the fun-loving Rover. "I, as Bud
Cashaw, am going to deliver the letter at the ranch."
"Tom, that's too risky!" cried Fred.
"I don't think so. I can tell them that the letter was left for father"—pointing to Bill Cashaw—"after he started for the ranch. I don't see how they can help but swallow the story."
"Yes, but see here—" interrupted the old man. "This ain't fair. I want you to understand—"
"I know what I am doing, Mr. Cashaw, and you had better keep quiet.
Watch him, fellows."
Without loss of time, Tom made his preparations for visiting the mysterious ranch. He rubbed some dirt on his face and hands, disheveled his hair and turned up one leg of his trousers. Then he borrowed the rather large headgear that Hans wore and pulled it far down over his head.
"How will that do?" he drawled. "Say, is my pap anywhere around this yere ranch?"
"Mine cracious! of dot ton't beat der Irish!" gasped Hans. "Tom, you vos make a first-class detector alretty!"
"He certainly looks like an Alabama country boy," was Fred's comment.
A few touches more to his disguise and Tom was ready to depart for the ranch. He called Songbird aside.