"Answerin' questions ain't sich fun as askin' 'em, eh? 'Tain't well ter mind other people's business, lads. Did yer ever think of that?"
And, well satisfied with this home thrust, Mr. Neil Prescott laughed gruffly.
He soon became quite pleasant, however, and entertained his visitors with several stories. But not a word of information did he volunteer about himself. When they took their leave, Sam and Tom's curiosity, instead of being satisfied, was aroused to a greater degree than ever.
"He doesn't belong to the village," said Sam, positively, "and isn't any hunter—you can bet on that. Wonder where in the dickens he came from? Say—did you notice the big box of provisions he had inside?"
"Yes—and the whole place was cleaned up as nice as you please. Any one could tell that he knows Mr. Fenton, too. Wonder why he tried to bluff us off."
"It's kind of mysterious, Tommy—and I hate mysteries. You and I, old chap, will have to clear this thing up. Neil Prescott isn't staying in that cabin for the fun of the thing. No, sir," and Sam shook his head with conviction.
That night there was no sign of life from the solitary occupant of Promontory Island, but late on the evening following the strange beacon burned even more brightly than before.