“But what could have made those marks if it wasn’t a sack of potatoes?” thought Bob in wonderment as he went back over the case.
CHAPTER XII
MONKEY LAND
Hiram Beegle was feeling much better. Several days had passed since the two assaults on him—being knocked down on his way home with the brass-bound box, and the attack in his own cabin. He was almost his own, hearty self again as he sat there looking at Bob, trying to fathom what the young detective was driving at.
“I don’t understand this potato business, young man,” said the old sailor.
“Neither do I,” admitted Bob, “unless you have a pet elephant somewhere around this cabin,” and he laughed.
“An elephant! I should say not, though I’ve seen plenty of ’em, and wild ones, too, in my time. More likely I’d have a monkey.”
“A monkey?” questioned the lad.
“Yes, I heard there was one camping on my doorstep while I was sick over at Tom Shan’s.”
“Oh, the organ grinder’s monkey—yes. But he’s gone away. He’s stopping over in Cliffside—at the Railroad House.”