“By jingo, Gus! Here we are, at considerable expense and a deal of trouble, taking it for granted that we’re going to do wonderful things, and we even don’t know that the theory we are working on is worth a blamed thing.”
“Oh, yes; we do,” said the intuitive Gus, who, looking like a woebegone swamp dweller, had just come in from the dunes. “And soon we’ll know a whole lot more. I just saw two gunners in the woods above the point, and if they aren’t Italians I don’t know one.”
The boys were a long day putting up their transmitting instrument, with its extensive aërial stretched between tall pines near the cottage. They would depend on the portable receiver.
And then, leaving Bill listening, poring over books, or chatting with old Dan, when the latter was off the water, Gus got into his ragged togs again, took his gun and started out prowling. And he prowled wisely and well.
CHAPTER XXIII
GUS
“Hey, fellow! What you do?” The voice came from among the pines, and Gus turned to see a dark-skinned, black-eyed young man, of about twenty-five or more, coming toward him. Gus stopped.
“You shoot in these woods?” asked the man.