“Now, what shall we do?” inquired the Angel, who was a bundle of nerves and energy.
“Would you like to go to me room awhile?” asked Freckles.
“If you don't care to very much, I'd rather not,” said the Angel. “I'll tell you. Let's go help Mrs. Duncan with dinner and play with the baby. I love a nice, clean baby.”
They started toward the cabin. Every few minutes they stopped to investigate something or to chatter over some natural history wonder. The Angel had quick eyes; she seemed to see everything, but Freckles' were even quicker; for life itself had depended on their sharpness ever since the beginning of his work at the swamp. They saw it at the same time.
“Someone has been making a flagpole,” said the Angel, running the toe of her shoe around the stump, evidently made that season. “Freckles, what would anyone cut a tree as small as that for?”
“I don't know,” said Freckles.
“Well, but I want to know!” said the Angel. “No one came away here and cut it for fun. They've taken it away. Let's go back and see if we can see it anywhere around there.”
She turned, retraced her footsteps, and began eagerly searching. Freckles did the same.
“There it is!” he exclaimed at last, “leaning against the trunk of that big maple.”
“Yes, and leaning there has killed a patch of dried bark,” said the Angel. “See how dried it appears?”