“Gee, Laura!” gasped Bobby. “Suppose he turns on us? We don’t know whether he is a robber or a minister. What will we do when we find him?”
“That depends altogether upon what he looks like,” said Laura. “Now hush, Bobby. The Barnacle is pulling hard; he really smells something.”
“I hope it isn’t another black and white kitten,” chuckled Bobby.
They went down a slope to a small hollow, well sheltered by trees and rocks. There was a faint odor of wood smoke in the air.
“A camp,” whispered Jess, having hard work to keep her teeth from nervously chattering, despite the heat of the day, “Who do you suppose is here?”
“We’ll see,” whispered Laura in return, and slipped the dog’s leash.
The Barnacle ran down into the dale at once. The three girls followed, cautiously parting the branches. They came in sight of the fire.
It was the remains of a late breakfast-fire, without doubt. There was a single figure sitting at one side of the smoldering wood. Barnacle was running about the encampment, snuffing eagerly for broken bits. He paid the figure by the fire no attention, nor did the man look at the dog. 151
The man stooped, and his face was buried in his hands. He wore a shabby frock coat, and a disreputable hat.
“That’s one of those two fishermen we saw in the canoe,” whispered Jess.