“See if you can open it,” said Hal. “Perhaps we can go in with the boat, to the stairs.”
“Padlocked,” informed Ned, briefly, and in disgust. “That proves it! They left him here on purpose.”
“No, sir-ee!” Hal insisted. “They never thought of the barn—they skipped after it had been locked for the night.”
They made a circuit of the barn, but there was no other door; and although within easy reach there was a window, of dirty panes, it was quite too narrow for entrance. Besides, the water hereabouts was five feet deep, as Ned found by sounding with an oar, and there was no knowing what disagreeable surprise the inside of the barn might offer to a person dropping through the window.
He peered through the dingy glass, and as well as he could scanned the dim, shadowy interior, faintly shown by the light which penetrated between the boards.
“Anyway, I’m glad a horse or cow isn’t in there,” he said.
They had passed out of the dog’s sight, and he was howling piteously, thinking that he had lost them.
“We’re coming,” shouted Ned; and they hastened to station themselves again at the sapling where the dog could see them.
This comforted him, and his howling changed to whines of greeting.
“Poor doggie,” spoke Hal to him. “I wish we could help you out of your fix.”