"But a chap can't always tell. And the idea of Conroy being sure about anything! Doesn't that jar you?"
"Something else will, if you keep up that line o' talk much longer."
"Trot out your map, Bob," went on Dick, with an air of scorn. "You may laugh, Jack, but we're crackerjack woodsmen. I know it seems hard to a chap who doesn't understand—"
"Cut it out!" howled Jack. "An' see here, Tommy Clifton, don't giggle like that again—mind now. Bring out your great gold mine map, Bob Somers, an'—"
"For goodness' sake, Jack, put a muffler on that voice," cried Dick, aghast; "curb it! Suppose Pete Colliver should be hanging around—or Ben Vincent—or Booney—or some of the men! Remember what Mr. Lovell told us—keep mum, mum, and mummer."
"Let's form the United Society o' Whisperers," scoffed Jack.
"Quit scrapping. Here's the map, fellows," interposed Bob.
He carefully spread out a sheet of brown paper upon a table in the center of the cabin, while Jack rudely elbowed the others aside.
"I'll let you see it one at a time," he announced, kindly.
Heavy lines traced the rude plan shown here.