She took the hat of white straw from John’s hand. “Why! This is Peter Junior’s hat! Where did you find 145 it?” She turned it about and saw dark red stains, as if it had been grasped by a bloody hand––finger marks of blood plainly imprinted on the rim.
“And this, Mrs. Ballard,” said Charlie, putting Peter Junior’s stick in her hand, and pointing to the same red stains sunken into the knob. “We think there’s been a fight and some one’s been hit with this.”
She took it and looked at it in a dazed way. “Yes. He was carrying this in the place of his crutch,” she said, as if to herself.
“We think somebody’s been pushed over the bluff into the river, Mrs. Ballard, for they’s a hunk been tore out as big as a man, from the edge, and it’s gone clean over, and down into the river. We can see where it is gone. And it’s an awful swift place.”
She handed the articles back to the boys.
“Sit down in the shade here, and I’ll bring you some sweet apples, and if any one comes by, don’t say anything about it until I have time to consult with Mr. Ballard.”
She hurried back and passed quickly around the house, and on to her husband, who was repairing the garden fence.
“Bertrand, come with me quickly. Something serious has happened. I don’t want Betty to hear of it until we know what it is.”
They hastened to the waiting boys, and together they slowly climbed the long path leading to the old camping place. Bertrand carried the stick and the hat carefully, for they were matters of great moment.
“This looks grave,” he said, when the boys had told him their story.