Frank Allen was not to be hurried an atom.
He leaned toward Hoptoad's guess, for the peculiar clink that followed his gently striking some object made him think of a glass bottle. The times were such that bootleggers drifted all over the prairie, disposing of their illegal wares to customers on different ranches.
Could it be possible that there was a regular cache of bottled goods hidden here so close to the ranch house? He had heard that Lanky's Uncle George had had more or less trouble with some of his former employees along these very lines; for they seemed able to get the stuff and go on protracted sprees in spite of all his precautions.
So when he reached over and lifted a bottle out of the hole it was with a feeling akin to bitter disappointment. Would this explain the persistent attempts of the queer little man to carry out some plan?
Low laughter and then grunts came from the group of punchers.
"Nothin' but a leetle moonshine, looks to me," old Jerry remarked, as he rubbed his pointed chin with finger and thumb.
"No brand on the pesky bottle, you-uns notice," ventured Lige, the foreman, trying to make the best of a bad bargain.
"Mighty queer that little runt taking such big chances just to get hold of a bottle of hot stuff," Zander Forbes from Yale remarked shrewdly.
"Jerry, they tell me you used to be a good judge of such things," observed Sally Keating. "Take a sniff, and see if you can name the brand."
"Hold on boys, you're all away off your trolley," Frank told them. "This bottle has been buried here for a good many years, I'd say; as long, it might be, as that old chest was in the cellar!"