“You look as if you needed a pair of stockings,” said Harry. “We’ll have to get some in Port Henry. You’ve got an extra pair, but you ought to have two good pairs in case we should happen to go—”
“Ha! What did I tell you? Didn’t I say you’d be going there again? And now you want to use me for a scapegrace!”
“A what?”
“Well, you know what it is when you want to do a thing and lay the whole blame on somebody else.”
“Oh, that’s a scapegoat.”
They had walked on and now reached a spot where they stopped short. It was within a few yards of the shore. Before them was a large charred spot, covered with ashes. A rough pole rested horizontally between two saplings. A stream flowed into the lake near by. The ground was trampled, and they could plainly see stake holes. Clearly, there had been a camp here.
Both boys stood silent, contemplating the deserted spot.
“Well, what—do—you—think—of—that!” said Gordon.
“Kid,” said Harry, after a minute, “this is where we saw the smoke from Dibble Mountain—just about where I thought. We didn’t see it from Bulwagga that first night because it wasn’t here.”
“Correct; be seated, Master Arnold.”