“Why—why—” faltered Mr. Damon, turning the paper over, “it’s from—from Ned Newton, who’s missing. It’s from him!”
“It purports to be,” said Tom in a low voice, looking at the old man who was rubbing with a lean hand a chin very much in need of the good offices of a razor. “But it may be a hoax.”
“Is it Ned’s writing?” asked Mr. Damon.
“Let me look at it again,” suggested the young inventor. “I was so surprised by the import of the message that I didn’t pay much attention to the handwriting.” He scrutinized it closely and said in a low voice to his odd friend: “It’s Ned’s scribbling all right. No one else makes a capital N just like Ned. Where did you get this?” he asked the old man sharply.
“In a field, boss. I picked it up and I made out to read it. I saw your name on it and I made some inquiries and folks directed me here. It’s been a long walk, and I’m tired and hungry and——”
“We’ll see that you don’t lose anything by what you did if this turns out to be no fake,” said Tom, still a bit sternly. “It will be worth a good deal more than ten dollars to you if this leads to the finding of my helper. Now tell me straight, where did you get this?”
“In the field, boss, I told you.”
“What field?”
“About five miles from here, over Cherry Valley way. I’m on the tramp—there’s no use lying to you—I’m a sort of a bum, but it ain’t all my fault. I work at helping on a farm when I can, but there’s been so much rain lately I couldn’t get much to do.”
“He’s right there—it has rained a lot,” said Mr. Damon.