"All right!" laughed his uncle. "Get those rabbits done up?"
"You bet!" Burt made a wry face. "We rubbed them with arsenic. That's about the only stuff that'll hold them in this weather. We make money though—or Critch does. We've done lots of birds for a dollar each, and we got five for Chuck's bulldog."
"I wish you'd take me over to your friend's home to-morrow night if you've nothing special on," replied Mr. Wallace. "I'd like to have a little chat with him. Are his parents living?"
"His father is, but not his mother. They only live about three blocks down the line. We'll go over after supper."
"Well, I'll go back and write another chapter before going to bed." Mr. Wallace rose and departed. He left Burt wondering. Why did his uncle want to see Critch?
He wondered more than ever the next evening. When they arrived at the small frame house in which Howard and his father lived, Mr. Wallace chatted with the boys for a little and then turned to Mr. Critchfield, a kindly, shrewd-eyed man of forty-five.
"Mr. Critchfield, suppose we send the boys off for a while? I'd like to have a little talk with you if you don't mind."
"All right, uncle," laughed Burt. "We'll skin out. Come on up to the house, Critch."
When they got outside, the red-haired boy's curiosity got the better of him and he asked Burt what his uncle wanted with his father.
"Search me," answered Burt thoughtfully."