But Frank had declined to listen to his “chaff,” as Andy would have called it himself. Already the other had advanced toward the opposite side of the structure. Here, in the fairly bright moonlight, they could see the pile of planks that had been left in the expectation that the building might have to be enlarged sooner or later.
Straight toward these Frank strode. The nearer he came to the pile the stronger grew his impression that they must be near a plausible solution of the mysterious racket.
“It came from somewhere about here, I should say,” he remarked, as he halted by the heap of boards to glance around.
“Yes, but so far as I can see there’s no big stone lying on top of the pile. Guess after all it was a mistake. We must have dreamed it,” said Andy, ready to give up.
But Frank was very stubborn. Once he had set his mind on a thing it was hard indeed to change him. And somehow he believed more than ever that if they looked close enough they would find the explanation of the queer noise in this quarter.
“Strange!” he muttered, evidently chagrined because he did not seem to discover what he had expected as soon as he had thought would be the case.
“No big stone here, that’s sure!” declared Andy, picking himself up from the ground.
“What was that you stumbled over?” asked his cousin quickly.
“That? Oh, only a bag of sand that swift bunch of masons who laid the foundations of our shack forgot to carry away with them. They’re a punk lot. Might have knocked my nose that time and started the claret to running,” and he gave the object of his disgust a vicious kick with his toe, after which he immediately began a war dance around the spot, for he had quite forgotten that he was wearing a pair of deerskin moccasins just then and had stubbed his toe against the hard contents of the bag.
“What are you giving me?” demanded Frank. “A bag of sand! Why, you know very well those masons never brought their sand in bags. It came in a load and was dumped right over at the other side of the shack.”