“Who?” asked Nelson sleepily.
“Our hobo friend.”
Sure enough, the corner was empty. Nelson felt quickly for the money, found it intact, and glanced about.
“Well, he hasn’t taken anything.”
“He kept his word, poor chap,” said Dan.
“He did take one thing, though,” said Bob dryly, kicking over the rubbish at the end of the room.
“What?” they demanded anxiously.
“The bottle.”
They left the hut as soon as the packs were tied up, and retraced their steps to the railroad track. On every hand were signs of the storm’s ravages. The sides of the old gravel pit were rutted deeply, and layers of sand and pebbles overlay the turf. Even the track had suffered in places, and a quarter of a mile toward Beach Neck they came across a section gang patching up a washout. By half-past seven they were seated at a table in the dining room of the little hotel eating like wood choppers. Through the windows beside them Great Peconic Bay glistened in the morning sunlight.
“There’s one good thing about missing your supper,” said Tom, his mouth full of oatmeal, “and that is that it gives you a dandy appetite for breakfast.”