“Um,” mused Bob. “Well, I wish you luck, but I don’t think much of your farm,” and he laughed as he started away.
“Sure, I have da good luck—t’anks,” and the Italian smiled and waved a hand in farewell. Then he resumed his digging.
Bob Dexter was doing some hard thinking as he drove his little flivver down the road and away from the bramble patch, where he left the Italian digging away at the holes, into which he dropped those queer, dried nuts or fruits. And Bob was still thinking on the many problems caused by the robbery and assault on Hiram Beegle as he went to his uncle’s store and reported on the business matter that had taken him out of town.
The young detective was still puzzling away over the many queer angles to the case when he reached home, and in the twilight he rather started nervously as he heard his name called when he was putting the car in the garage.
“Hello, Bob!” some one hailed him.
“Who’s that?”
“What’s the matter?” laughed the voice of Harry Pierce. “Any one would think I was a detective after you.”
“Oh—yes, I was thinking of something else,” admitted Bob with a laugh. “Come on in! Seen anything of Ned?”
“I’m here,” replied the other chum, as he stepped out of the darkness. “Where you been?”
“Over to the courthouse for Uncle Joel. Anything happened in town while I was away?”