Frank and the other fellow seemed to be conferring in low whispers, and hence he crept up to learn what was in the wind.
“See anything, Frank?” he asked eagerly, as he pushed in beside his chum.
“Softly, Bluff. Yes, if you look through this little opening you can see it, too.”
“Why, it’s a house—a sort of old cabin, more like,” said Bluff, as he peeped.
“That’s just what it is. Now, search your memory, both of you—do you ever recollect hearing about any one living on Wildcat Island?” asked Frank.
“Sure I do, now that you ask. There was a queer man once who used to live like a hermit here. That was years ago. They found his skeleton in his cabin. Nobody ever knew what he died of, but it was alone, excepting for his dog, that ran wild till he was shot by a duck-shooter,” whispered Bluff.
“Glory! this here place is some on thrills,” grumbled Tom Somers.
“Never mind the things that are dead and gone. We have more to fear from those that are living. It looks as though the tramps have taken up their quarters in the deserted shack of the old hermit, doesn’t it, Tom?” asked Frank, in the ear of the other.
“It sure does, for a fact. Like as not the whole outfit is quartered there right now. And somehow I got a suspicion that our grub meandered this way, too. Seems like I see a familiar Boston baked-bean can lying there by the door, where they hustled it out after eating the contents.”
Frank made no reply to this insinuation. Whatever he thought he kept to himself.