The extension-bag was now in his father’s hands. Mr. Pinkney brought it to the mired car and opened it. There was no mistaking the contents of the bag for anything but Sammy’s possessions.
“What do you know about that?” murmured the amazed father of the embryo pirate. He rummaged through the conglomeration of chattels in the bag. “No, it is not here.”
“What are you looking for, Mr. Pinkney?” demanded Agnes, feeling rather serious herself. Something might have happened to the truant.
“That picture his mother spoke of,” the father answered, with a sigh.
“Hoh!” exclaimed Neale O’Neil, “if the kid thinks as much of it as Mrs. Pinkney says, he’s got it with him. Of course.”
“It looks so,” admitted Mr. Pinkney. “But why should he abandon his clothes—and all?”
“Oh, maybe he hasn’t!” cried Agnes eagerly. “Maybe he is coming back here.”
“You think this old tree,” said Mr. Pinkney in doubt, “is Sammy’s headquarters?”
“I—don’t—know—”
“That wouldn’t be like Sammy,” declared Neale, with conviction. “He always keeps moving—even when he is stowaway on a canalboat,” and he chuckled at the memory of that incident. “For some reason he was chased away from here. Or,” hitting the exact truth without knowing it, “he tucked the bag under that tree root and forgot where he put it.”