“Here is your coat,” said the younger lad. “We stumbled over it when we were chasing the rascal. Were there any valuables in it?”
“Only a couple of letters from my father,” replied Brick, as he went through the pockets of the garment. “By Jove! they’re gone, though. The thief will find he’s made a valuable haul.”
Brick spoke in jest. He little dreamed what use would be made of the stolen letters, or what a harvest of trouble he was destined to reap from their loss.
“I’m feeling considerably better now,” he added. “I’m glad of it, for I’ll have to be moving soon. It’s getting late, and—— Hullo! something just struck me. I believe you’re the very chaps I’m looking for. This is a queer go.”
The lads exchanged puzzled glances. Possibly they thought that the blow had deranged Brick’s mind.
“I’ll bet anything your names are Jerry Brenton and Hamp Foster, and this is the dug-out in the bluff,” resumed Brick. “Am I right?”
The boys nodded in open-mouthed wonder.
“I’m Jerry Brenton,” admitted the elder.
“And Hamp Foster is my name,” added his companion, “but I never saw you before.”
“Of course you didn’t,” declared Brick. “Do you fellows remember Tom Fordham, the chap from New York that spent a vacation here two summers ago, and had such jolly times with both of you?”