"Something in this," he continued, trying the rusty buckles. "Why, what's the matter, Fred?"
For Fred had uttered a sudden cry, and they saw his face turn deathly white. He snatched the sack, tore it open, and shook it out.
A number of pieces of rock fell to the floor, a couple of geologist's hammers, a pair of socks, and a couple of small, oilcloth-covered notebooks.
On these Fred pounced, and opened them. They were full of penciled notes.
"They're his!" the boy exclaimed wildly. "They're Horace's notebooks! I knew his turkey. Horace was here. Don't you see? He was the sick man!"
For a minute his companions, hardly comprehending, looked on in amazement. Then Macgregor took one of the books from his hand. On the inside of the cover was plainly written, "Horace Osborne, Toronto."
"It's true!" he muttered. "It must really have been Horace." Then, collecting his wits, he added, "But he must be all right, since he's gone away."
"No!" Fred cried. "He'd never have gone away leaving his notes and specimens. It was his whole summer's work. He'd have thrown away anything else. He must be dead."
"He was vaccinated. He's sure not to have died of smallpox," Peter urged.
Fred had collapsed on the mud floor, holding the "turkey," and fairly crying.