“Did you look under the bridge?”
“Yes. Nothing there.”
The farmer stood still for a moment, thinking; then he clambered down the bank and peered into the shadow under the bridge floor. “Come down here,” he said. And when Beveridge had reached his side, standing ankle-deep in the muddy water, he went on, “See that?”
“No—wait a minute, I can't see anything yet. What is it?”
“Feel this rope. It's been cut.”
“Oh,” murmured Beveridge, “I see. A boat.”
“Yes. He has stolen my boat.”
“Of course—and slipped off down-stream as easy and quiet as you like. He's a cool hand, that Spencer. Come back up here—we 'll go on down and meet Smiley. Wait, though, he might be hiding anywhere down the stream here. Are there many bushes and such along the bank?”
“Yes, it's grown up pretty heavy. I never had any reason for keeping it cleared.”
“Well, then, we 'll keep down here close to the water where we can see things.”