The more he thought of it, the more his suspicion grew that, in some way, Tom or Bob, or both, had had a hand in the thing. Tom, indeed, had expressed his intention to Henry Burns of spying on the camp in his hunt to find the missing box; and, although it seemed a most unlikely hour for him to have gone down there, Henry Burns wisely conjectured that that was what he must have done.
Accordingly, shortly after Henry Burns had arisen that morning, and after he had gathered from a few villagers who were abroad some fuller details of the night’s adventures, he made his way to the camp on the point. There were no signs of life about the camp, and, softly opening the flap of the tent, he peered within. Tom and Bob lay stretched out, sound asleep.
Henry Burns stepped noiselessly inside. He called them by name in a low tone, but they did not awaken.
“Last night’s excitement was too much for one of them, at least, I guess,” was his comment. And then he added: “If my suspicions are true, their fun lasted later than mine, and was far more exciting—but I’ll find that out.”
There was a camp-stool beside each bunk, upon which Tom and Bob had thrown their clothes before turning in. Henry Burns quietly removed the clothing from these chairs, made them into a bundle, and, tucking the bundle under his arm, walked out of the tent and lay down on the grass, just outside.
It seemed to him as though another hour had passed before he heard a creaking of one of the bunks, and a voice, which he recognized as Bob’s, said: “Hulloa, there, Tom, wake up!”
“Ay, ay,” growled Tom, sleepily, but made no move.
Again Bob’s voice: “Say, Tom?”
No answer.
“Tom—hulloa, old fellow—come, let’s get up. It’s late.”