“Yes, I see,” said Andy, “and it’s a sight for sore eyes.”
He halted the machine and jumped out as they reached the fence of a pasture lot containing several flocks of sheep. In one corner of it stood the old shed. Silas was worked up to quite as high a pitch of suspense and expectation as Andy himself.
“There’s the shelf!” he cried, as Andy passed through the doorway.
“Yes, but—my old clothes are not here.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” almost choked out Silas.
“It is true,” said Andy, getting down from the keg he was standing on. “Here’s a lot of old truck, wagon hardware and hoops and a grindstone, but the clothes are gone.”
Silas uttered a dismal groan.
“Oh, I’m a hoodoo!” he declared, banging his head first on one side and then on the other. “Here I’ve made you all this trouble, all for nothing. But, say,” added the farmer eagerly, “some one must have taken those clothes. We may trace them down. And say, some one has been in this shed since I left it yesterday.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Someone has slept here. See, the floor is covered with straw. Some tramp, I suppose. It rained last night, and he came in here for shelter. Oh, whoop! whoopee!”