“If I were in Jake’s place I would go to it just once, and when I found it I’d take it and leave the country. A brute of a father who pounded me as Matt pounded Jake should not see a cent of the money.”
“Mebbe that’s what Jake means to do,” answered the guide. “I hope it is, and that we will be in sight when he tries it; for it will be no trouble at all for us to slip up and gobble him and the money at the same time. That would scare Matt, who would lose no time in getting away from these woods.”
“That’s just what I hope he will do,” said Joe, to himself. “Somehow I can’t bear the thought of seeing him come into court to get a Mount Airy boy into trouble.”
“I’ve often thought of it as a curious thing that the stolen guns and your canvas canoe should have been found in the same place, and that place the cove where Matt’s camp used to be,” said Mr. Swan, after a little pause. “By putting this and that together, I have come to the conclusion that Matt and his family hang out near that cove, believing it to be the safest place for them. I thought I would go up there after dark and skirmish around a bit. What do you think?”
“If that is what you have decided upon, why, go ahead,” replied Arthur. “We shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that we are busy, even if we don’t accomplish any thing.”
“We don’t want to go near the cove until after dark,” the guide went on. “We tried that once, you know, but Matt got wind of our coming and took himself safely off.”
A plan of operations having been decided upon, the boys took Mr. Swan’s canoe in tow and pulled for the lake with long and lusty strokes. Shortly after twelve o’clock they landed in a little grove to cook their dinner; but, after they had taken a look at the heap of ashes, potato skins, charred chunks, withered hemlock boughs, fish-heads, bones, and empty fruit and bean cans that were scattered about, they told one another that they would go farther and find a neater place.
“This is the worst camp on the lake, isn’t it?” said Roy. “The fellows who lived here were either new hands at the business or else they were a lazy lot.”
They were both. The grove was the site of Tom Bigden’s old camp, and a nice looking spot he and his cousins had made of it. But such groves were plenty along the beach. Another was quickly found, an excellent dinner was prepared and leisurely eaten, and after Mr. Swan had taken time to smoke a pipe the party shoved off and headed toward the creek that led to Matt Coyle’s old camp.
“Now, then,” said the guide, who thought it time to assume direction of affairs, “we don’t want any more loud talking. And be careful how you let them oars rattle in the rowlocks. A slight noise can be heard a long distance in a quiet place like this, and Matt is always listening.”