“Looks that way,” said Brent.
“You haven’t seen anybody around in here examining trees?”
Tom shook his head. “I think I saw you before, didn’t I?” he added.
“Yes?” the stranger asked curiously.
“Down in—near our car?”
“Oh, did you? Yes, I looked in there one day; in fact, I bunked there overnight. All right, I suppose?”
“Sure enough,” said Tom, somewhat relieved by this frank declaration; “I thought you saw me that day.”
“No. I’m in the conservation service; checking up on trees around here; I sleep anywhere I happen to be,” the visitor said briskly. “I was on the watch for a telephone gang; you’ve got to get them red-handed, you know; they work at night. They need an extra pole or so, and findings is keepings. You’ve got some pretty rotten looking trees around here.”
“They don’t belong to us,” said Brent.
“You expecting them to chop some trees around here?” Tom asked, with increasing interest.