“It’s all right, so open the door, Andy,” came the voice of his chum.
“Did you find anything?” demanded the keeper of the fort, as Frank glided in through the opening.
“No, not exactly,” replied Frank, dropping into a seat.
“But you say that as if you weren’t quite sure,” expostulated his cousin.
“I went over to the place you mentioned. There was certainly nobody there,” continued the late scout, positively.
“Just as I said,” declared Andy, “it was one of my freaks. I’ll just have to put a brake on that imagination of mine. It’ll get me in trouble one of these days.”
“But the grass seemed trampled down, and in one place I found where it looked as if somebody might have been stretched out looking through between the bars of the fence. I struck a match, and picked up this thing.”
Frank held up a partly burned cigarette.
“Which shows,” he went on, “that after all perhaps some one was hiding in that corner, watching the hangar. And when you stopped to look, it alarmed him, so that he scurried off.”
“A cigarette, eh? Well, we know who uses that sort of thing all the time. And his name is spelled Sandwith Hollingshead, too,” Andy declared emphatically.