"Don't care, I'm sure," said Nat, with a rather peculiar glance toward Piper.
To their surprise, however, the hunters from across the lake greeted them pleasantly.
"Boys," said Robinson, with an embarrassed air, "too bad about that little misunderstanding we had the other night. We were certain it was you who rolled the snowball."
"Why didn't you take a little time to find out?" interposed Nat Wingate, curtly, with a flash of his brown eyes.
"Oh, come now," put in Heydon, "no hard feelings. We're not any of us perfect, you know."
"Well," said Hackett, "what made you fellows change your minds, after being so sure?"
"The fact is," said Robson, with a sorry attempt to appear at his ease, "we found a note under the door of the shack. It was written by that precious young scamp, Musgrove, and he said that you fellows had nothing to do with it."
"How was the handwriting?" asked Bob Somers, quickly.
"Villainous, the spelling remarkable, and the grammar on a par with Musgrove's intellectual expression."
"Then," said the poet laureate in a low tone to Bob Somers, "the mystery deepens."