“Pat? Nonsense!” said Arthur. “Do you think that any power of Pat’s could produce such a noise?”
“O, I don’t know. He may have a private pocket steam engine, and occasionally let off steam to amuse himself.”
“You’ll have to hunt farther than Pat,” said Bruce, seriously.
“Why, man alive!” cried Bart; “you don’t think now that there’s anything in it—do you?”
Bruce said nothing.
They all hurried along the path, peering into the woods as they went on, and listening for a renewal of the sound.
But there was none.
At length they reached the gully, and, crossing it, they ascended the steep slope on the other side. This brought them to the old French orchard, and to the very cellar which had been the scene of their memorable midnight operations. Looking down into the cellar, they could see the traces of their work very plainly. They had filled in the hole as well as they could, but the ground bore visible marks of having been turned up.
“If any of the fellows have been up here,” said Bart, “they must have noticed this.”
“I don’t think that follows,” said Phil. “They wouldn’t notice it, in my opinion.”