They went out and walked around, examining the neighboring brush. The night was too dark for them to see anything. Besides, as the wind blew in gusts, they thought it likely that these impetuous assaults against the dense growth were the only sounds they had heard. They were too dog-tired to extend their investigation, so they turned in for the night.
This was the beginning of their period of watchful waiting. If it had not been for the pleasure of camping in that romantic fastness, they might have abandoned their enterprise. But the camping life, the atmosphere of the primitive little cabin, and the charm of the wild surroundings carried them along.
In the days immediately following, Tom rummaged in the overgrown hollow from which the place derived its name, pulling aside great masses of brush and searching the open ground underneath. I suppose there wasn’t one chance in a hundred of his finding anything there. He finally acknowledged that the treasure-seeking phase of their enterprise was a failure. But there did seem at least a fair chance that the old fellow out west would turn out to be Mink Havers and would seek his old familiar home. There was adventure in the mere expectancy of this, for every rustle of a tree at night aroused the keenest apprehensions.
It was during this period that Brent (who declined resolutely to prosecute an aggressive search) hiked about the neighborhood and one day ambled into Scout Headquarters up at Kanawauke Lakes. Here he hunted up Spiffy and returned him his scarf-pin. I want you to read the letter he sent me, not only because it is so characteristic, but because it throws a light on certain interesting events which were shortly to occur. My facts I received from Tom, my local color from Brent.
Dear Friend:
We have not found the money yet but we are very comfortable here. Tom pulls brush in the daytime and turns over suspicious rocks, and at night we amuse ourselves hearing noises. We hear as many noises as you hear on a Ford. Every now and then we start up and listen and then decide that it was only the zephyrs soughing in the trees. There is an owl around here who works nights. When there is nothing else to do we tell bedtime stories.
I don’t believe the campers up around the lakes know anything about us; anyway, they haven’t bothered us any. Those kids travel on regular trails; very wild but you can’t get lost. One kid jumped the track and dropped in on us late one night. It seemed that the world was against him and he was retreating to Jersey City. Tom made him go back. I inquired about him when I hiked up that way. A chap said there wasn’t much hope for him—that his starting off like that had only made matters worse. His parents are away in the country somewhere, and as soon as the managers can get in touch with them, the kid goes back. It must be dreadful to spend a summer in Jersey City. If there is one type of kid I like, it’s the kind that has all the world against him.
Oh, I forgot—there’s a piece of news. A man in Sandyfield told me that some one had told him that Sarah Ann Berry had mentioned to Seth Plummer that a person from Eddyville told her that June Sanderson was in the Highland Orphanage at Kingston. So there’s your little friend discovered for you. Tom said he told you about the fellow who ran away from his Ford, so I guess that’s about all now.
Yours,
Brent.
I answered this letter as follows, sending it to Scout Headquarters as per instructions:
Dear Brent:
Thanks for your letter. If you could capture some of those breezes and send them down here, that would be better than treasure. And thanks for telling me about the little girl; I’ll send her a box of candy at Christmas. I wonder if she’d remember me?
Anyway, I can pay you back for your kindness by telling you that last night on the radio, Pittsburgh said that a man corresponding to John Mink in appearance had been seen on a freight train east of that town. Eastern cities are asked to be on the watch for him. He may be heading for Highlands at that. I was reading an article about amnesia; it seems they do wonders with people whose memories are broken down.
Let me hear from you again and good luck to both of you.
CHAPTER XXVII—A Visitor
“Well,” said Brent, “I suppose we’d better kill the fatted calf and dust the cabin and tidy up a bit. Keep the home fires burning. He might drop off the freight at Tuxedo. Do you think I ought to put on a white collar?”
They were lingering in the cabin as they usually did after lunch. “And the dishes not washed, either,” Brent added.