Dick turned pale. “Did you kill him?” he cried in horror. “Tell the truth, Toma, you didn’t hit him, surely? You wouldn’t do that.”
“I just tell you I like make ’em run. Wolf Brennan, Toby McCallum do very fast run back there in the trees,” Toma pointed away in the direction he had just come. “Mebbe next time them fellows think twice before they try spy on our camp.”
For a brief interval, Dick and Sandy grinned over the mental picture of those two racing figures, but their mirth was short-lived. The same thought came to each at the same time.
“I’ll bet they heard what we were talking about,” gasped Sandy.
“Sure they did,” said Dick.
“In that case, no use going to Clear Spring River. Might as well go on the way we planned in the first place”—dolefully.
“Might as well.”
Toma, who had been gazing up and down along the shore, suddenly broke forth:
“What you think them fellows do with our canoe?”
“Set it adrift, of course,” grunted Sandy. “It’s probably miles away by this time. Might even have reached the Lake of Many Islands.”