“You can search me,” he gritted. “I can’t tell you that—any more than I can tell you why these blankets are all cut and slashed in holes. It must have been either a maniac or a devil!”
“A mighty hungry devil,” Purdick put in. “There isn’t a smell of the bacon left, and we’re shy on everything but the canned stuff.”
“I can’t imagine a man, or any bunch of men, mean enough to treat us this way!” Dick raged. “Why, it’s simply savage!”
By this time Larry had got the Berserk Donovan temper measurably in hand again.
“Gather up, fellows, and let’s see where we land,” he said shortly. “The milk’s spilt and there’s no use crying over it. How about the eats, Purdy; what have we got left?”
Purdick checked the commissary remains off on his fingers.
“A few cans of tomatoes and peaches and pressed potato chips, the can of coffee, enough of the flour and meal to make us two or three eatings of pan-bread, and one can of corned beef. That’s about all: and there’s no salt and no sugar.”
“Suffering cats!” Dick exclaimed. “And we’re at least forty miles from anywhere! Good land, Larry; don’t you suppose we could trail these robbers when it comes daylight again and fight it out with them?”
Larry was examining the leather carrying case in which the simple testing apparatus, the blowpipe, charcoal, and the few chemicals were packed. The case had not been broken open, but the stout leather was scratched and gashed as if some one had tried to cut into it with a dull knife.
“You say ‘robbers,’ Dick,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess there was only one robber. Look at these cuts on this case. What kind of a knife do you suppose it was that made them?”