“We’ll ask for some pencils if he’s there,” whispered Chub as they crossed the street. The stationery store was small and as soon as they had closed the door behind them they saw that Dick had vanished. The only occupant was a middle-aged man who was arranging some boxes on one of the shelves back of a counter.
“We’re looking for a fellow who came in here a while ago,” said Roy. “Has he gone?”
“A young fellow about your age?” asked the shopkeeper. “Yes, he’s been gone about twenty minutes. But he said you’d be along asking for him and he left a note. Let me see; where did I put it?”
“A note?” faltered Chub.
“Here it is,” said the man. “I guess that’s for you, isn’t it?”
Roy took it and read the address: “Mr. Thomas Eaton, or Mr. Roy Porter.”
“Y-yes, that’s ours,” he muttered, looking sheepishly at Chub. That youth had thrust his hands in his pockets and was whistling softly. Roy unfolded the sheet of paper, read the message and handed it silently across to Chub. Chub read it, refolded it carelessly and turned toward the door.
“Well, there’s no use waiting,” he said. “By the way, I suppose he went out the back way, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” replied the shopkeeper. “He wanted to know if he could get the Ferry Hill road that way and I told him to keep to the left through the alley, cross the field back of the saw-mill and—”