“Sa-ay, that’s a good idea. Come on.”
Freeman Hunt was almost out of sight now. But as the two scouts took up the trail, they saw him pause where a flood of light streamed from the window of a drinking-place. He paused here for an instant and gave a low whistle; presently the boys’ hearts gave a bound. From the doors of the resort issued three figures, one of which they recognized, even at that distance, as Stonington Hunt. With him were the two men who had played such a prominent part in the filching of the wallet belonging to Major Dangerfield.
“Keep in the shadow,” whispered Tubby, crouching in a convenient doorway; “they haven’t seen us. Hullo, there they go. Keep a good distance behind—as far back as we can, without losing them.”
The men the scouts were trailing struck into a lively pace. They seemed to be conversing earnestly. Through the shadows the two boys crept along behind them. Presently they were traversing a residence street, edged with elms and lawns and white picket fences. It was deserted and silent. The occupants of the houses were wrapped in sleep.
“Maybe they’re going to turn into one of these houses,” whispered Hiram.
But the men didn’t. Instead, they kept right on, and before long the last electric light had been passed and they were in the open country.
“Hadn’t we better turn back?” murmured Hiram. “It looks as if we were going too far for safety.”
“Let’s keep on,” urged Tubby. “There’s no danger. If we gave up the chase now we’d have had all our work for nothing.”
Hiram made no reply, and the two boys, taking advantage of every bit of cover—as the game of “Hare and Hounds” had taught them—kept right on dogging the footsteps of their quarry. All at once Tubby began sniffing the air.
“We’re getting near the sea,” he proclaimed. “I can smell the salt meadows.”