"The most powerful strange thing I ever hearn tell of, cap'n."
"Hurry up, and tell us," put in Nat, impatiently.
"Cap'n, read it ter the lads." Yardsley extended the paper.
Bob whistled. "This is the funniest thing yet," he exclaimed. "Listen:
"'If you want to know where your furs are hidden, go to the place where you found the sled. There is a gully about fifty feet to the north. It is half full of snow, and a stick marks the spot. Dig—dig—and dig some more. Yours, The Unterrified Band of Near-Bandits.'"
"I don't understand this," said the trapper, blankly, scratching his head. "It can't be that them furs weren't stole, arter all? Bless me, what does it mean?" He stared in a bewildered manner at the others.
"That this is a very funny region," mused the poet laureate. "It's another one of those things that makes a fellow's head ache to think about."
But the trapper's hopeful expression soon vanished. He shook his head, soberly. "No sich luck, mate," he said. "This here is jest the work—"
"Of the Bounding Brotherhood of Brilliant Jokers," broke in Nat, with a laugh. "Do you suppose that this is Musgrove's doings?"
Hackett sniffed. He picked up the paper, which had fallen in the snow, and held it under his chum's nose. "Look at that writing, and tell me if you think either Sladder or Musgrove could have done it," he said. And as a doubting look came over Nat Wingate's face, he added, significantly, "How about the Piper gang? Perhaps they are trying to get square with Yardsley for suspecting them, eh, Chubby?"