"The sentry has deserted his post," remarked Pratt. "But I dare say he's not far."
He gave a shrill whistle. An answer came distantly from the woods, and presently Armstrong appeared, pushing his way through the thickets on the western side of the clearing.
"All quiet, old man?" asked Warrender.
"Until a little while ago," Armstrong replied. "I heard a rustling and crackling in the thicket yonder. I couldn't see anything, and for a time I simply kept on the watch; but it went on so long that I got sick of doing nothing, and started off quietly to investigate, and nab the fellow if I could. But though I couldn't see him, it's clear he could see me. What his game was, I don't know; I only know that I could always hear him moving some little distance ahead of me, and before I realised how far I had got, I found myself pretty near the farther shore. I just caught a glimpse of a back among the bushes, but when I got to the place there was nothing to be seen or heard either. It occurred to me then that I'd been decoyed away while some one played hanky-panky here, and I cursed myself for an ass and hurried back, but things look undisturbed."
They glanced around the camp and inspected the interior of the tent. Their various properties appeared to be exactly as they had been left; nothing was obviously missing.
"I suppose it was another little freak of Siren Rush," remarked Pratt. "We met him rowing down as we came up. No doubt he was going to visit his hut on the beach."
He retailed the bits of information derived from the fisherman, dwelling particularly on the surprising fact that, "potty" though he might be, Mr. Ambrose Pratt was respected, and even liked, by the country folk.
It was not until they began to make preparations for their evening meal that a new light was cast on the mysterious movements in the thicket. Armstrong took their kettle and bucket down to the river. Neither would hold water. Examining them, he found a hole in the bottom of each, clean cut as if made by a bradawl. Meanwhile Pratt had discovered that their tea was afloat in the caddy, and the wick had been removed from their stove.
"More pin-pricks," he said. "Any one would think the blighters had learnt ragging at a public school."
"Pin-pricks be hanged!" cried Armstrong, wrathfully. "They're much worse than a jolly good set-to--much more difficult to deal with. If they'd come out into the open, we'd jolly well settle their hash."