"Huh! I told you Bill was all right, didn't I?" came over the shoulder of the one ahead.
"And he's promised to keep an eye out for that counterfeit Bill, what's his name—Brockholt. There's a cool three hundred up for his arrest and return to Lauderville. Bill, of Rattail Island, is out for the stuff," went on Frank.
"I'm right glad it's so. That proves he couldn't be mixed up with the fellow they say escaped from the pen. But there's the farmhouse through that bunch of water maples, boys. Are we going to make a try for grub?" demanded Lanky.
"Watch us, that's all. And here's as good a place to take our skates off as any. Look out for dogs, fellows. They all keep 'em up here, it's so lonely for the women folks; and I imagine that every now and then some prisoner escapes in this direction."
"My feet feel like clubs. I can hardly stand," declared Ralph.
"Jump up and down some. That'll bring about circulation of blood, and take away the numbness. Now, come along, all who want to join the grub skirmishers," with which Frank led the way up the bank.
"Just our luck to strike a house where there isn't any smoke, and the good people have gone ten miles away to eat Christmas dinner with another part of the family," grumbled Lanky, from the rear, as he stumbled along.
"Whatever got that notion into your head?" asked Frank, turning around.
"Oh! I had it happen one time I was away. I think that was on Thanksgiving. We floundered three miles across a marsh, in mud up to our knees, and got to the house on the hill only to find it shut up and cold, with a paper on the back door telling John, whoever he might be, that they would be back to-morrow. You ought to have seen us if you ever wanted to look on a disgusted bunch."
"Go on," said Frank.