"Boat gone, blankets, provisions, everything but what we stand upright in, and the truck Tom threw on shore. What do you suppose my dad will say?"
"That we are a lot of duffers, if there ever were any," cried Sam, angrily. "There are just three questions I would like to have answered. Who did it, why was it done, and how did anybody manage to follow us, find the boat, and yet keep out of sight so well?"
"And all three are stumpers," said Bob.
"Talk about it a week, puzzle your brains out, and you wouldn't know a thing more than we do at this minute," declared Dick, gloomily.
"Guess your dad will be mad, eh, Bob? A cool—don't know how many dollars."
"What's going to be done now—go home?" asked Tom.
"Not a bit of it, sonny. I'm going to keep right on, and tell the police in the next town. I say, won't Nat Wingate enjoy this?"
"And 'Hatchet,' too," added Dick.
"We are in an awful mess, that's certain," observed Dave, ruefully. "Still, there's no use in staying here all day and crying about it. Are you fellows going to eat anything?"
"Don't feel much like it," admitted Bob; "but, still, I suppose we had better, especially with a twenty mile walk in front of us."