"See that Hen keeps busy peeling and washing potatoes," Dick advised Greg in passing.
Then the three rested shovelers took up the task. The path was now approaching the cook shack at the rear of the cabin.
"Queer, isn't it," inquired Dave, "that we don't see a blessed thing of Mr. Fits to-day, and that there's no smoke going up his chimney."
"Perhaps he has left these parts," suggested Tom, rather hopefully.
"How could he?" Dave wanted to know.
"Maybe he went last night."
"I doubt if he could get away, even last night, at the hour when we turned him adrift," Darrin contended. "A man might have gone a quarter of a mile, but he couldn't go a whole mile."
"He hasn't been out to-day, at any rate," declared Dick. "There isn't a trace of a track anywhere near the shack."
"Let's dig up to that window and look in," suggested Dave.
This was done. A few minutes later the three boys stood at the window, glancing in at all they could see of the small interior. Beyond the stove and chairs there appeared to be nothing to see.