“How many men were there?” asked Tom.
“Three well ones and a sick one,” the boy answered.
“A sick man!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “What do you mean?”
“Well, his head was tied up in rags and the other men carried him out on a cot. He didn’t say nothin’, the sick man didn’t.”
“That was Ned!” murmured Mr. Damon. “Bless my doctor’s bill, Tom, but do you think they’ve done for poor Ned?”
“No, I don’t think so,” was the reply. “I think they gagged Ned so he couldn’t call for help, and they probably bound him with rope. Naturally he couldn’t walk, and they had to carry him out. So he would appear to be a sick person. Well, we know how many we have to fight—three men,” he concluded. “Can you tell me anything more about the men who were here, son?” asked Tom, tossing the boy a quarter which the lad picked up in his toes after it had fallen in the dust near him. “Did you see them often?”
“I sneaked down here pretty near every day after they come to this old house,” the boy answered. “They didn’t see me, ’cause I hid in the bushes. But they was funny men.”
“How do you mean—funny?”
“They used to fly kites out of the window—anyhow, one of ’em did. But I couldn’t see him plain, ’cause there’s iron bars over that window—up there,” and he pointed to the casement of the room where Tom had found Ned’s stick pin.
“So one of the men flew kites out of that window, did he?” encouraged Tom. “What happened to them?”