Presently Jack again halted. This time he did not speak.
However, the Cubs, gathering close about, saw that they had neared their destination.
Directly ahead, in a tiny clearing close to the stream, stood a crude shack. Side walls were badly built from odd-shaped lumber which the Cubs guessed had been taken from near-by construction jobs.
The flat roof was made of tar paper. Some of it had torn loose and flapped in the light breeze.
“You didn’t build the shack?” Mr. Hatfield whispered to Jack. He had noted a tiny curl of smoke rising lazily from a tin pipe cut through the roof.
Jack shook his head. Motioning for the Cubs to follow, he moved in a little closer.
“Who lives there?” Brad whispered, impatient for information.
“Wait,” Jack said. “We’ll get in close, and maybe you can see for yourselves.”
“If we all move in, we’ll likely be seen,” Mr. Hatfield insisted.
It was decided that Jack, Mr. Hatfield, Brad and Dan should go on ahead, leaving the others in the shelter of the trees.