One of them came through the woods and stopped and looked at us.
"Aren't you fellows going to the boat races down at Catskill?" Winton shouted. "You're going to miss the time of your lives if you don't. Better get a hustle."
"What time are they?" the camper shouted.
"Just about now," Bert shouted; "follow the old Bowl Creek bed and you'll get there quicker." Then he rowed away again. "That'll fix 'em for to-day," he said. "More than one way to kill a cat, hey?"
"There are some races, aren't there?" I asked him.
"Sure there are. That pair won't get back till midnight if they once hit Catskill."
I said, "You think of everything, don't you?"
"Now, Blakeley," he said, kind of more serious like, while he rowed around; "what are we going to do about it? Skinny didn't take the money, that's settled. All right then, who did? Nobody. Correct, be seated. All right then, what became of it? Mr. David Jones has it—our old college chum, Davy. It's at the bottom of Black Lake. How do I know all this? Because I know young mackinaw jacket and because I know Skinny—see? Simple as eating pie."
"Gee, I've got to admit that eating pie is easy—especially mince," I told him.
He said, "All right, now I'm going to ask you a question and if you want to, you can say 'none of your business.' You told me you were keeping still about something. Has it anything to do with Skinny?"