"There's nothing wrong up at the house, sir; but I wanted to tell you something I think you ought to know, in case the time comes when you might want to find Jim Dilks and his gang and they were not at home," began Darry.
The constable quailed a trifle, then grew stern.
"Big Jim or little Jim, which?" he said, anxiously.
"The boy who has tried to make things so warm for me. He and his crowd have a shack in the swamp, where they camp out from time to time. That's where you'll find them when wanted."
"Sure that's interesting news, lad. Can you tell me just where to look?"
He heaved a sigh of relief—then there was not any need of immediate haste, and Hank was a true Southern "cracker," always ready to postpone action.
"Leave the path along the creek just where it makes that sharp bend. A fallen tree marks the spot. Head due south until you sight a big live oak, the only one I noticed. The shack lies under its spreading branches, Mr. Squires. I thought you ought to know. Besides, I told Jim and his crowd I meant to inform you."
"What! you saw Jim there, and his crowd with him? I wonder they let you get out of the swamp without a beating," exclaimed the constable, surprised, and looking at this newcomer as though he could hardly believe his senses.
"They knew better. The fact is, sir, I had a shotgun with me. Perhaps they may have had a recent experience with such a little tool. But no matter, they let me gather up my traps and the three muskrats taken from them, and never offered to put out a hand to stop me."
"Traps—muskrats—look here, now I begin to see light, and can give a guess how it came you were there in that swamp. You followed the rascals there."