“Have what wrong?” asked Chet, surprised.
“You say you have to get the papers back. Wrong. We have to get ’em back. I’m with you, Chet, no matter how big the job is.”
“Oh, thank you, Dig! I know you’ll stand by me,” Chet declared. “We’ll have to start as soon as possible after these thieves. We must pick up their trail and chase them.”
The boys reached the camp at this moment. There were a few live coals in the bed of the fire, and Dig stirred them with his foot and then threw on some light fuel. Soon the blaze sprang up and the light flickered over the spot.
Their saddles had not been touched. Chet had already made sure of that. His own blanket was on the ground where he had flung it off when he arose, awakened by the rifle shot; but Dig’s had disappeared.
“By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland!” yelled Dig. “The dirty rascals have swiped my blanket—And the skillet! Holy mackerel, Chet! they’ve taken the coffee-pot, too, and all the tinware. That would be just like that Tony Traddles! The great, hulking, no-account brute!”
“No use calling him names,” said Chet grimly. “They’ve pretty well cleaned us out. But the worst is the deeds,” and he sighed.
“I wonder they didn’t take the horses,” exclaimed Dig.
“Your seeing them and firing the gun probably saved our mounts for us,” his chum said.
“But if I’d stayed in the camp they wouldn’t have cleaned us out,” said Dig thoughtfully.