The house stood at some distance from the road, and, in summer time, would have been hidden from the road. The house had not been occupied in a quarter of a century by any lawful tenant. It was a two story affair, and had been originally built for the superintendent of a lumber and milling camp. Beyond was a brook that had been dammed, furnishing good water-power for all the year excepting in the summer months. By the old water course lay the ruins of what had once been a saw-mill.
Running up the short flight of steps to the front door of the dilapidated old dwelling off in the forests, Ab. Dexter produced a rusty iron key and swung the door open.
"Where you going to put him?" asked Driggs.
"In the rear apartments, upstairs," answered Dexter, with a laugh.
Accordingly Dick was carried upstairs and into a roomy back apartment. There were inside shutters that Dexter swung open while Driggs dropped the breathing though unconscious Grammar School boy on the floor.
"Now, you'd better get that borrowed rig back in the part of the world where it belongs," advised Ab. Dexter.
"I will," nodded Driggs. "But—say!"
"Well?"
"That Prescott boy is young, but he's tricky."
"I know that, don't I?"