Among these lingerers were Stonington Hunt and his worthy son. The elder of the two seemed to be in a great rage. He gritted his teeth as he gazed at the Boy Scouts clustering about Paul’s machine, and spoke to his offspring in a low voice.
“Luck seems to have turned against me of late,” he muttered, savagely; “another failure. But either I’ll have that machine or no one else shall, or my name’s not Stonington Hunt.”
“We started the fire at the wrong end of the wagon house, pop,” rejoined his son, in a low voice, but low as his tones were, his father seemed seized with alarm.
“Not a word, Freeman,” he muttered hoarsely, looking about him in a scared sort of way. “Remember we know nothing about the fire. We were in bed when it started, and raced down here to find out what terrible calamity threatened our fair village.”
Freeman Hunt nodded comprehendingly.
“All right, pop; mum’s the word,” he breathed, “but we’ll try again.”
“Those brats are not through with me yet by a good sight,” rejoined his father, vindictively, by way of reply.
“Nor with me,” chimed in Freeman.
Soon after this worthy pair left the place, having been unnoticed by Rob or any of his chums or scouts. It was Tubby who, poking about the ruins after his usual inquisitive fashion, made a sudden discovery, a short time later. He had come across a piece of wood which was unburned, having been thrown aside by Paul Perkins in his first efforts to quell the fire.
The boy sniffed this bit of wood curiously and then summoned his friends.