“Nothing doing,” said Garry, coming down.
“We’re up against it, for a fact,” said Doc.
“That’s just what we’re not,” retorted Connie. “It seems we’re nowhere near it.”
“Gee-whillager!” cried Garry as he scrambled down the tree trunk. “Sling me over the peroxide, will you!”
“What’s the matter?” asked Doc, interested at once.
“I’ve got a scratch. What Pee-wee would call an artificial abrasion.”
“Superficial?” laughed Doc, pouring peroxide on a pretty deep scratch on Garry’s wrist.
“See there?” said Garry. “Feel. It’s sticking out from the trunk.”
As Tom held his lantern a small, rusty projection of iron was visible on the trunk of the tree about five feet from the ground.
“Is it a nail?” asked Connie.