Jerry, after an undecided second or two, faced about and began to retrace his steps. He cut through the Ellery back yard and came out on the cross street at whose corner the Fultons lived. The house was a big ramshackle affair of a dozen rooms or so, far too large a place for the Fultons, since there had been only the two of them, Tod's mother having died when he was only a little tad. Indeed, as Tod said, they only used three rooms, the kitchen and two bedrooms. But that was hardly true; there was a big basement under all the house, the most of it used as a workroom, and here it was that the two of them spent the better part of their waking hours.
Mr. Fulton was an odd sort of man, a bit inclined to think his business his own business. But it was no secret among his neighbors that all sorts of queer contrivances were planned and made in that combination machine shop, carpenter shop, forge and foundry below stairs.
Mr. Fulton was an inventor. True, for the most part he invented useless things; he had inherited money and did not need to make any more. But the boys, who were allowed to roam through the workshop at will, were wildly enthusiastic over the ingenious devices schemed out by father and son, for Tod was a chip off the old block.
Now, Jerry did not go up to the front door, even though it was standing ajar. Instead he hurried to the little side porch and reached high up under the eaves, where an electric button was concealed. He pushed it, hard, well knowing that if Mr. Fulton were anywhere in the house he would hear that bell. That was why it had been so well hidden.
But there was no response. Again Jerry rang; he could hear the shrill br-r-r-r of the bell. After a long time he heard footsteps, but something told him they were not those of Mr. Fulton. The door swung open. There stood Mr. Aikens.
"Is Mr. Fulton here," demanded Jerry.
"Asleep," nodded Mr. Aikens.
"I've got to see him."
"All right—if you don't wake him up."
"I've got to talk to him—I've got big news."
"Big news? Of—of Tod?" Big Mr. Aikens was not the kind of man to become easily excited, but his manner was eager enough.
"Of Tod—yes!" cried Jerry.
"What is it? Have you found his—his body?"
"Better than that, Mr. Aikens—Oh, I'm almost dead sure!"
Jerry was so excited himself that his voice shook. As for Mr. Aikens, he leaped over and caught Jerry's arm and was shaking it wildly up and down. Neither one noticed that a white-faced man stood in the opposite doorway, and that his eyes were simply blazing with expectancy.
"What do you mean? Whatcanyou mean!" demanded Mr. Aikens.
"I believe that Tod Fulton is——"
"Not alive?" almost screamed a voice from across the room. "Not alive!"
"Alive and on Lost Island!"
This much of the interview was perfectly clear to Jerry afterwards, but what followed he could not quite understand at the time or later. For a moment it was almost laughable. There stood Aikens fiercely clutching one arm and waving it up and down as if to pump further information from him. Mr. Fulton, after the first dazed instant, darted across the room and grabbed Jerry's other arm.
"Whereis he? Tell me—quick!" he demanded.
Then it was that Jerry could not understand, for the look that came over Mr. Fulton's face at his reply was neither belief nor doubt. His eyebrows almost met in a frown as he repeated mechanically:
"On Lost Island, you say? But—but—how do you know? You weren'tonLost Island, were you?"
"No—o," answered Jerry slowly.
A look of relief, quickly hidden, came to Mr. Fulton's face, but Jerry saw it, and wondered.
"Did someone tell you he was there, then?"
"Someone told me hewasn'tthere——" began Jerry, when the ting-a-ling of a telephone bell cut him short.
"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Fulton and hurried from the room. His muffled voice could be heard in a lengthy conversation. Jerry impatiently awaited his return, anxious to tell the rest of his story. Imagine then his surprise when Tod's father delayed his return unreasonably, and his only response to Jerry's eager sentences was, "Yes, yes, I know."
Jerry's heart sank unaccountably—he sensed the fact that Mr. Fulton was not listening, was only waiting, in fact, till the boy should finish and he could decently get rid of Jerry. The story was consequently hurried through. Disappointed beyond description, Jerry left the house, not even noticing that Mr. Fulton had left the room even before Jerry had reached the door.
Something was wrong somewhere; Jerry had expected that his story would be literally snatched out of his mouth; instead it had been smothered under the dampest kind of wet blanket. Feeling not a little sore over his failure to impress the two men with the importance of his discoveries, Jerry plodded along home, determined that as soon as he had gulped down a little breakfast he would hike back to Lost Island alone and make one more attempt to gain the cover of its wooded banks.
Even that plan was doomed to disappointment. Jerry's mother had saved a goodly breakfast for him, and bustled about making him comfortable. Contrary to Jerry's expectations, she had no word of blame for his having remained away overnight without asking consent, and even listened with sympathetic ear to the story of his adventures. But just at the moment when Jerry was about to announce his intention to return, Mrs. Ring was called to the back door, to return a few minutes later with the announcement that it had been Mr. Aikens, and that Jerry was not to worry any more about Lost Island.
"But I've simply got to go back, ma," sputtered Jerry, his mouth uncomfortably full of pancake. "Mr. Fulton isn't going to—well, he didn't show much interest in my theories—-"
"But Mr. Aikens seemed to think he did. You just rest easy, son. If two grown men can't take care of your Lost Islander—and your theories, too, why, well—you just get ready to pile into bed, that's all."
"But, ma—there's the boat."
"It'll take care of itself till you get there."
"But, ma——"
"Hush up, now. Into bed with you."
"But can I go after the boat when I——"
Mrs. Ring caught up a flat piece of wood from the back of the kitchen range, and laughingly but firmly put an end to the coaxing, Jerry retreating hastily to the shelter of his bedroom.
Both Jerry and his father stood in awe of tiny Mrs. Ring, who barely reached to overgrown Jerry's shoulder.
"Wake me up at twelve, will you, ma?" called Jerry, in his most wheedling voice. His mother only laughed, but Jerry felt sure she would. Besides, there was his dollar alarm clock.
Jerry repented his request when sharp at twelve o'clock he was called for noonday dinner. He was sleepy and cross and not a bit hungry. His muscles were sore, and the drill to Lost Island did not have quite the romance by broad daylight that it had had a few hours before.
Jerry watched his father put on his hat and hurry back to work, with a great deal of relief. His mother was much easier to handle in a case of this sort.
"You won't mind if I don't get back till late?" he asked, hoping she would give her unqualified consent to his remaining away as long as he saw fit. "You promised me I could go camping this summer—let me take it now,please, ma."
"Will you promise me to come back and let me pick the birdshot out of you after you've made a landing on Lost Island?" she asked in mock anxiety. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Ring was about as proud of her big boy as a mother well could be without making herself a nuisance to the neighbors. From his earliest boyhood she had cultivated the independence of spirit he showed with his first pair of real trousers, and now she often strained a point to let him exercise it. To be sure, she sometimes wondered how much was genuine self-confidence and how much was a reckless love of adventure.
Now she raised her eyebrows in denial, but at the eager look on the boy's face she relented. "Trot along, Jerry," she agreed, with a quick pat at his shoulder—the Rings were not much at kissing each other. "If you can't take care of yourself by now, you never will be able to. I know you're as anxious as you can be about Tod—I do hope it turns out that you are right about him."
With a muttered, "I've got to be right," Jerry set about making himself a couple of substantial sandwiches and stuffing them in the pocket of his canvas hunting coat, which he took along for emergencies. "Good-bye, ma," he called over his shoulder. "I'll be back as soon as I can bring Tod with me."
Once outside, he wasted no time but struck off at once cross-lots to rout out Dave Thomas and Frank Ellery. Fortunately Frank came first, otherwise Jerry might not have been equal to the task of waking up Dave. They tried everything they had ever heard of. They tickled his feet; they set off a brass-lunged alarm clock under his very nose; they dumped him roughly out of his bed, but even on the bare floor he slumbered peacefully on. Cold water brought only temporary success. They were in despair.
It was Frank who finally solved the problem. Seating himself on the foot of the bed, he raised his head much in the fashion of a hound baying at the moon—the sound that issued from his throat would put to shame the most ambitious hound that ever howled. Jerry caught up a pillow and would have shied it at the head of the offender, but the perfectly serious look on Frank's face withheld his arm. Gradually it dawned on him that the boy was trying to sing—and, more than that, it was one of Dave's favorite songs he was murdering.
Then it was that Jerry understood Frank's strategy. The bed-clothes began to heave; they had piled them all atop Dave as he lay on the floor. Frank began on the chorus. A wriggling leg emerged from beneath the comforts. Jerry joined in, his voice a villainous imitation of Frank's discords. Another leg came to view.
They began to repeat the chorus, further off key than before. One line was all they were suffered to torture. A catapult of boy, bedclothes and pillows bounded from the floor and sent Frank spinning into the bed, while Jerry barely saved himself from a spill on the floor.
"You will yowl like a lot of bob-tailed tomcats, will yuh!" yelled Dave, dancing up and down on one foot—he had stubbed his toe against one of his shoes in his charge across the room.
"You will snore away like six buzz-saws on circus day, huh?" snorted Frank, neatly catching Dave in the pit of the stomach with a pillow caught up from the floor.
For a second it looked like a free-for-all, but Jerry had no time to waste.
"Get your clothes on—hustle. We're going back to Lost Island."
"Suppose my mother won't let me?"
"Suppose you tell her we've got to go and get our boat? She'll let you go all right. You just want to get back to bed, that's all that's worrying you. Hustle, Dave. We can't lose a minute."
"But didn't you tell Tod's dad about what we—found out?" Dave hesitated over the last. It was plain to be seen that he was none too sure in his own mind of the importance of their discovery.
"I did, and he—well, he acted so queer about it that I don't know what to think. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they—he and Mr. Aikens, you know—never went near Lost Island. They think we're just kids."
"But we don't reallyknowanything, Jerry; we're only just guessing."
"Guessing, huh? Well, I'm only just guessing that you're wasting a lot of time about getting your clothes on, but in about half a minute I'm going to climb all over you."
At that Dave bristled up a bit, but his fingers became spryer with buttons and hooks and very shortly he stood fully dressed and ready to go downstairs. Jerry had already made peace with Mrs. Thomas, so little time was lost in waiting for Dave to snatch a bite to eat and be on his way.
"I've got four bits loose in my pocket," announced Jerry, once they were out on the street. "If we don't let any grass grow on the side streets while we're moving we can make the two-five express on the Dellwood Interurban. We can drop off when they slow down at Downers Crossing; that must be almost opposite Lost Island. It's hard going through the swamps to get to Plum Run, but I guess we're good for it."
They made the two-five—with about three seconds to spare. Their car was empty, so each dropped into a seat and sprawled out comfortably. Jerry smiled grimly to himself as he looked back perhaps five minutes later and saw how the two had slumped down in their seats. It did not need a throaty gurgle from Dave to convince him that the pair were sound asleep. "A fine pair of adventurers," he muttered to himself, not entirely without some feeling of resentment. It was well enough to be the leader, but—well, he wouldn't have minded a little snooze himself.
He did not feel quite so critical, however, when, perhaps a half hour later, at a terrific jolt of the train, he was roused from the doze into which he too had fallen. A hasty glance out the window told him that they were at Downers Crossing. With a yell that would have done credit to a whole war-party of Comanches, he pounced upon the two sleepers and dragged and pushed and pommeled them out onto the platform of the car. The train was beginning to move, so their descent was none too dignified.
"Why in thunder didn't you wake us in time so I could have got a drink?" complained Frank.
Jerry said nothing; he felt too guilty to risk any answer. After they had cut across to the wagon road that led in the general direction of the river, he consoled his chum with: "Downer's farm is only about half a mile in, and we can get all the buttermilk we want there——" adding mischievously: "——on Wednesdays, when they churn."
Both Dave and Frank promised instant murder for that, so he had to admit that they would reach the best spring in Winthrop County within three minutes.
"Saved your hide by just twenty-nine seconds," declared Dave as he plunged his face into the bubbling surface of the clearest, coldest kind of a hillside spring.
Their gait was much livelier after that, and in less than ten minutes Plum Run was sighted, But they did not come out as close to Lost Island as Jerry had predicted. In fact, they were not certain in which direction it lay, for to the north lay a cluster of trees apparently surrounded by water, and which might well be the place they sought. To the south lay another green spot away from shore.
"It's north of here," declared both Dave and Frank, but Jerry exclaimed triumphantly, after the first tangle of argument:
"It must be south. If Lost Island was north the wagon bridge'd be between us and it."
So south they went; and as they drew nearer they saw that the patch of green was indeed Lost Island. Once they were within close sight of it, they went forward with all caution. The last hundred yards or so they made on hands and knees, finding cover in every clump of bushes or willows on the way.
But finally they were ready to break through the last fringe of willow and spy out the prospect. Jerry, who was ahead, waited for his two companions to catch up with him.
"Not a sound, now," he cautioned as they crouched beside him.
Stealthily they pushed aside the leaves that obscured their view. Suddenly, from behind them a yell, blood-curdling, absolutely hair-raising, rang out through the stillness. The three turned.
But it was too late. Breaking cover at the same instant, a half-dozen husky young chaps charged on the surprised trio.
"Up and at them, fellows!" came a roar. "They're part of the gang!"
For a minute or two it was hard for the three boys to understand just what had happened. They were pounced upon and hurled roughly to the ground, in spite of their violent struggles, and there they were pommeled unmercifully. They fought back, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. It was no adventure-story fight where the lone hero engages a dozen husky brutes and by superior science and strength lays his assailants out one by one.
Too bewildered to be really angry, the three found themselves pinned to the ground. Then they were able to take stock of their attackers. Six boys they were, of about the same size and age as Dave, Jerry and Frank, They were dressed in some odd sort of uniform, like brownish canvas. Just now their faces wore triumphant grins.
"Here comes Phil," remarked one of the three who were standing, coming over to sit on Jerry's legs, Jerry having seized a favorable opportunity to attempt escape.
"What's the idea?" inquired the newcomer, a tall but well-knit chap with a broad, sunburned face and a mop of black hair showing under the forward brim of his wide hat.
"We caught them trying to sneak up on us, so we fooled them and jumped on them instead. It's part of that Lost Island gang," volunteered Dave's captor.
"We're not either," exploded Dave.
"Shut up!" exclaimed the one astride his stomach. "Didn't we see you slinking along through the bushes?"
"Well, so were you. But we didn't try any wild Indian game on you just on that account."
"Good reason why. You didn't see us," crowed the one on top, givingDave a vigorous poke in the ribs to emphasize the point.
That was too much for Dave. His usual good nature had been oozing out with every passing second. Now he gave a sudden twist, heaved, turned, heaved again, and in less time than it was told, was on his feet and presenting a pair of promising looking fists to the two others who had quickly come to their comrade's assistance.
"Hold on a minute," suggested the one they had called Phil. "Let's get the straight of this thing first and fight afterwards. You say you don't belong on the island?" he asked, turning to Dave.
"We certainly don't. We were trying to get onto it without being seen.That's why we were skulking along that way."
"Trying to get onto it? You haven't any boat."
"We could swim, couldn't we?"
"But what do you want to get onto the island for? Where are you from, anyhow?"
"None of your particular business," snapped Dave, but Jerry answered as well as he could with his shortness of breath—he too was "stomached" by a stout boy of his own size:
"Watertown."
"Know anybody there by the name of Tod Fulton? He's a cousin of mine—why, what's the matter?" for the three boys had cried out in dismay.
"Why—why—he's the boy we're after. He's our chum," stammered Jerry at last.
"Then what you after him for—if he's your chum?"
"Well, he's—he's——" began Jerry, and Dave blurted out:
"Drowned!"
"What!" cried the whole crew at that. "Tod Fulton drowned!"
"We don't know for sure. That's why we're trying to get onto LostIsland."
Then the story came out, piecemeal, for all three insisted on telling it. Phil stood as if stunned. At the end he said simply:
"He's my cousin. I'm Phil Fulton. We live at Chester. That's about ten miles south of here. We're the Flying Eagle Patrol of Boy Scouts—maybe you noticed our suits."
"Thought you were some kind of bushwhackers the way you dropped on us," complained Frank. "But what was the idea in thumping us because you thought we were from the island?"
"We had good reasons enough," declared Phil. "We left town at midnight last night, hiked all the way to our boat-landing two miles up the river, and made the long pull up the Plum in the dark just for the sake of getting an early morning chance at the best bass rock you ever heard of—just to get chased out at the point of a shotgun after we'd landed the first one—a three pounder too. Can you blame us for being sore?"
"On Lost Island?" asked Jerry eagerly.
"No,offLost Island. A big burly ruffian blew down on us, cussing a streak, and wouldn't hardly let us get into our boat. Chucked stones at us all the way across and promised us a mess of birdshot if we came back. Do you blame us for wanting to lay you out?" It was Dave's conqueror who spoke.
"If that's what you do on suspicion, I don't want to be around when you're sure of yourself. My ribs'll be sore for a week."
The boys had been talking excitedly; each one was wrought up over the fate of poor Tod and this was the only way they were willing to show their feelings. It was Phil who brought them back to earth.
"Well, fellows," he suggested, "let's get acquainted first, and then let's see if we can't frame up some way of getting across and going over that island from end to end. Line up, Scouts, and be presented."
The Scouts lined up in two columns.
"This is Sid Walmsly, nicknamed 'the worm,' partly because that's the way we pronounce his name, but mostly because it's a long worm that has no turn, and Sid says he's always the one to be left out. You can remember him by the wart on his left knuckle. Next is Dick Garrett; he's assistant Patrol Leader. This thin, long-drawn-out morsel of sweet temper is Fred Nelson. We tried to nickname him "Angel" but he licked everyone that tried it on him. Now comes our joker, we'd call him Trixie if we dared. His ma calls him Algy Brown. Frank Willis stands first in the behind row. He goes by the name of "Budge," chiefly because hewon'tunless he wants to. Barney Knowles, the littlest giant in the world—the one in the red sweater. He wears a sweater in July and shirt-sleeves in December. And last of all, but not least—far from it—Ted Lewis, the only grouchy fat man in captivity. Smile for us, Teddy." Teddy growled.
Jerry introduced himself and his two chums, and then turned anxiously to Phil. "Got any plan?"
"Why not just get into our boat and row over? We can tell that chump over there——"
"Thought you told us good Scouts were always respectful to our elders?" interrupted Ted, he of the "grouch."
"Respectful where respect isdue," came the quick response. "We can tell the gentleman that we have sent the rest of the gang back for the sheriff——"
"And good Scouts never tell lies——" This from Ted again.
"Be still or I'll make it the truth by sending you back after him. We ought to make the try, anyway, because that makes our next move easier. If we can't get on the island in the open, we've got to use a little strategy. If we just could get our boat around to the other side of the island——"
"I've got it!" cried Dave. "Our boat's down the river. While the bunch of us keep up a demonstration along the shore here, two of us could slip down and get the boat and sneak in at the lower end."
"Good. We'd best waste no time about it because it's going to be coming on dark before we know it. Who's going along with me?"
"To the island? I'll go. The man knowsme," agreed Jerry. "Where's your boat?"
The rest waited in the cover of the bushes while Phil and Jerry quietly made their way down the river bank to where the Scout boat was moored. They sprang in at once, Phil pushing off and hopping lightly to the oars. There was only one pair, but he sent the boat skimming across the ripples. No one was in sight on the island, and they were in hopes of making a landing unobserved, but just as their boat touched shore the willows parted and the man stepped out on the high bank.
"Back again?" he demanded gruffly.
"Oh, yes," replied Phil easily. "We came back to see if you'd let us look for a box of tackle one of the boys thinks he left down where we were fishing this morning."
"Oh! And you," said the man sarcastically, turning to Jerry. "I suppose you came to look for a lock of hair from your drowned friend's head?"
The man's tone was so unfeeling that Jerry simply gasped, but Phil boiled over at once.
"I'll have you know that that boy was my cousin. We have good reason for believing that he's on this island andwe're going to search it!"
"Oh, indeed!" and Jerry could have sworn that there was a twinkle in the man's eye for all there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. "Well, I can promise you a full-sized spanking unless you make yourselves scarce in just about one half minute. This makes the third time I've had to chase you off—and third time's the charm, you know."
"But why don't you want us to look for our friend? Surely you've got nothing against him—or us."
"Not a thing. Not a thing, sonny. Only I live on this place, and I can't have a troop of youngsters tracking mud in at my front door. That friend of yours couldn't very well be on my island without my knowing it, could he?"
"But you've never said out and out that he wasn't on the island," asserted Jerry boldly. "And you've acted so suspicious that—that we wouldn't believe you now if you did say it."
The man laughed at that, for Jerry had started out by trying to be diplomatic, but his feelings got the better of him before the end.
"I'll be careful not to say it then. As for the tackle box—here it is." Jerry opened his eyes wide; he had thought the box a pure invention on the part of Phil. "Now back water and keep backing."
"You think you've got us beat," shouted Jerry at his retreating back. "Never you worry—I've told Mr. Fulton, and he and Mr. Aikens will be coming down here with a posse. They won't be asking your permission if they can investigate an island that doesn't belong to you any more than it does to me."
"It belongs to Mr. Fulton, I suppose?" challenged the man, and turning around for a last laugh. Neither boy answered.
"You tell your Mr. Fulton that I said he was welcome to come any time."
"Now what?" asked Jerry, as Phil turned the boat about and headed for the other shore.
"What next? Night, mostly. Then I think we'll show your Mr. Billings a few Scout tricks he doesn't know about."
"I didn't say his name was Billings——"
"I know—butIdid. I've seen him before. That may be the reason he's so touchy about having us land on the island. The last time I saw him it was down at dad's office. Uncle Ed—that's Mr. Fulton, you know—was there, and when I opened the door on them suddenly, he and this Billings were having the hottest kind of an argument. Dad hustled me out of there in a hurry, but not before Uncle Ed'd called him Billings—and a lot of other things."
"You think then that Billings is still sore at Mr. Fulton, and that he's holding Tod there——"
"Nothing more likely. We'll know to-night. At least we'll know whether Tod is there—and I guess we'll make a good strong try at getting him loose."
"How can we do it? What's your plan?"
"Leave it to the Flying Eagle Scouts. I'm not bragging, but we're one live crew!"
Still, it was some time after the return of Phil and Jerry from their unsuccessful sortie into the enemy's country, before a practical plan occurred to the ten-brain-power plotters. But the scheme, once its details had been worked out, struck them all as having a fair chance for success. Briefly, it was this:
Two of the boys—Jerry and Phil were again chosen—were to go down the river to the bridge and cross over and get theBig Four. They were to come back up the river as quietly as possible, hugging the opposite shore to a point about two hundred yards below the island, where the east bank spurred off into a fairly high hill. Here one of the boys was to leave the boat, as near nine o'clock as possible—it was now seven—and climb the hill, where he was to signal across to Dick Garrett, who would be watching directly opposite.
Then Jerry and Phil were to make all speed to Lost Island, landing at the lower end. The Boy Scouts, and Dave and Frank, were to gather as conspicuously as possible—a flaring camp fire would show their intentions—and pretend thattheywere about to embark for the island.
Thatoughtto leave the lower end of the island unguarded for the safe landing of Jerry and Phil. Once they were ashore, the dense bushes and the darkness ought to be sufficient cover for their search.
Little time had been lost, really, in making the plan, for the Scouts had been bustling back and forth, building a camp fire and preparing supper. Four of them had set up the tents, finishing the task begun by all of them when Jerry and Phil set out on their first trip to the island.
It was not a very fancy meal the boys sat down to. The food was served on paper lunch plates, so there would be no dish-washing. Each Scout carried knife, fork, spoon and tincup. There was no extra "silverware" save the cook's big utensils. So the three outsiders ate with fingers and pocketknives. A nice mess of perch had been caught in a near-by creek, and Frank Willis, whose turn it was to act as chef, had browned them most artistically. There were some ash-baked potatoes, and a farmhouse close by had provided a generous supply of buttermilk.
The last of the meal was eaten by the light of the camp fire, for the sky had clouded over and night seemed to drop suddenly from above. Licking the last morsel of the delicious fish from his greasy finger-ends, and wiping his greasier mouth on his sleeve, Jerry jumped to his feet and announced:
"I'm ready, Phil, if you are."
"I've been ready for a quarter of an hour—just waiting for the skillet to be empty, because I knew you'd never stir so long as there was a crumb left. Where do you put it all?"
"I've got to stow away a lot to balance my brains. I notice you're a light eater," retorted Jerry, but Phil only chuckled.
"All right, you two—be on your merry way," put in Dick Garrett. "This is no picnic excursion you're starting off on. And don't forget your oars, unless you expect to row your boat with your wits."
The two made no reply; a half minute later there were only eight boys in camp.
Something like a quarter of a mile inland was the gravel road that followed the windings of Plum Run, to cut across at the wagon bridge. Two stealthy figures hurried through the woods and across the fields, to emerge on the other side of a barbed wire fence and trudge off down the dusty road.
"Some woodsman, you are!" snorted Phil in purposely exaggerated disgust. "When you skulked through the brush the limbs could be heard popping for a mile. How many times did you fall down?"
"Fall down? What you mean, fall down? Every time you stumbled over your shadow I thought you were ducking for cover, so I simply crouched to keep out of sight."
Phil snorted, and quickened his pace. Jerry put an extra few inches on his own stride and easily kept up. They passed a farmhouse—at good speed, for a dog came out and after a few suspicious sniffs proceeded to satisfy his appetite on Phil's leg. A loud ripping noise told that he at least kept a souvenir of the visit.
The dog's excited barking kept them company to the next farmhouse, which they passed as silently as possible, not particularly desiring to repeat the experience.
"It was your whistling back there that scared up that dog—see if you can whistle a patch onto my leggins," Phil suggested when they were once more surrounded by open fields.
Jerry did not answer, for just ahead of them the road forked and he was trying to remember which turn it was one took to get to the bridge. He had never gone this way, but he had once heard a farmer giving directions to a party of automobilists. However, Phil unhesitatingly took the branch that cut in toward the river, so he said nothing for some time.
"Ever been over this road before?" he ventured to ask when the road suddenly became so rough that they stumbled at every step.
"No—never been up this way. We always fish on the other side of thePlum."
"How do you know then that this is the right road?"
"It turned in toward the river, didn't it? And the other road angled off toward Tarryville."
"But the bridge road is graveled all the way, and if this isn't blue clay I'll eat my hat. It might just be a private road to some farm, and the other road might have swung around after a bit. This muck-hole doesn't look good to me."
"All the same, through those trees yonder I can see water. It's the oldPlum all right. Shake a leg."
"I think we'll gain time by shaking two legs—back to the fork. That's the Plum, all right enough, but you'll walk through marsh all the way to the bridge if you try to follow the bank. I remember now: this is the old wood road. It hasn't been used since they cut timber on the Jameson tract."
Jerry did not wait to finish his argument but had already gone back a good fifty feet of the way to the other road, when he noticed that Phil was not following him.
"What's the matter, Phil?"
"Don't you think we've wasted enough time, without losing some more by going back?"
"We'll lose more by going ahead. And we're losing now by standing still chewing the rag about it. Come on."
"I'm going ahead. You followed my lead this far; I guess it won't hurt you to follow it a little farther. I'm Patrol Leader, you know."
Jerry sensed a little resentment in Phil's tone, and remembered that once or twice he had spoken to the Scout leader just as he did to his chums—and his chums always looked to him for commands.
"I'm not trying to boss you, Phil, don't think that. But Iknowthat the other way is the best way, and I'vegotto follow it. So you go ahead, and I'll wait for you at this end of the bridge."
Without further word he strode off on the back road. It was so dark that he might have done so safely, but he did not look back. Nevertheless, a pleased grin spread over his face, for he was soon aware that Phil was tagging along not many paces behind. That had always been the way. Jerry was a born leader; the other boys followed him willingly because they never found any cause to lose confidence in his judgment.
"Phil, you're a genuine sport," was all he said as the other boy fell into step beside him as once more they reached the gravel roadway and turned into the right-hand branch.
Sooner than they expected they saw the gaunt skeleton of the upper bridgework against the dark sky. Jerry did not permit himself an "I told you so," but he said instead:
"We'll be in a pretty pickle if we get on the other side and find our boat gone."
Phil made no answer and in silence they walked across the hollow-echoing bridge. A series of giant stone steps led down to the river bank, and as soon as they reached bottom they saw that their fears were groundless, for there lay theBig Fouras Jerry and Dave had left her eighteen hours before. Deep footprints in the mud bank, dimly visible in the dusk, told that someone had stopped to look the boat over. Perhaps had the oars been handy, the boat might not have remained so safely.
The boys were glad to relieve their shoulders of the pair they had taken turns in carrying, and without pausing to rest, they stepped into the boat, Phil finding some difficulty in making the Scout boat's oars fit theBig Four'soarlocks. But at last they were off and Jerry bent to his task. TheBig Fourhad been built for speed, and the craft was trimmed just right for getting the most with the least effort. The current was fairly swift here, but Jerry hugged the east bank and took advantage of every eddy. It was not long before Lost Island swung into sight.
"Let me spell you off," suggested Phil, but Jerry shook his head.
"After we land at the hill you can take her the rest of the way. I think I'll pull in at that little cove just ahead. It makes a little longer walk, but it's well out of sight of the island. Who'll climb the hill!"
"Leave that to me. I kind of want to try out a little signaling stunt that Dick and I have been figuring on. Here's a good sandy stretch; let's beach her here."
The boat grated on the pebbly shore; Phil sprang lightly out, and Jerry was left alone. He could hear Phil scrunching over the rocks and through the brush; then all was still. Jerry strained his eyes to see if he could make out the figure of Dick, who must be almost directly opposite, but only the dense black of the wood met his gaze. He waited patiently for the gleam of the flashlight, but minute after minute slipped by, and no signal appeared.
So he was somewhat surprised when after perhaps fifteen minutes he heard a footstep on the beach and he realized that Phil was returning.
"Our scheme worked fine," announced the Scout leader. "Bet you never even saw Dick's signal."
"No, I didn't," confessed Jerry.
"Good reason why. You see, I figured out that if you shoot a flash straight out in front of you very long everybody can see it. A quick flash—well, anyone who saw it might think it was just lightning or the interurban. So I just snapped about a dozen straight up into the air, until I got a return flash from Dick. Then I used this." He pulled out a little pocket mirror. "I pointed my light straight at the ground, and gave him a dot and dash message by holding the mirror in the light. Some scheme, eh?"
Jerry merely grunted, but way down in his heart a deep respect was forming for these Boy Scouts and their resourcefulness.
"Just flash a few signals to those oars," he advised, taking his place in the stern. "And be careful with that left oar—she squeaks if you pull her too hard."
But Phil soon showed that he needed no advice about handling a boat. Without a sound—without a ripple, almost—they moved away from shore and cut out into the current.
"Safe to get out into line with the island, I guess. If they're watching, it's the shore they'll be most suspicious of."
"They? We've only seen one out there."
"Maybe. But I'm betting on a pair of them at least. It's about time for the boys to—listen to those Indians, would you? I'm afraid they're overdoing it a bit."
From the far shore, out of sight behind Lost Island, rose a hubbub of cries that sounded as if the island were about to be attacked by a war party of Sioux. A Boy Scout yell sounded out, the voices of Dave and Frank heard above the rest.
"Guess your two must have deserted your banner and joined the Eagles," teased Phil.
The island lay dead ahead of them, dark and still. Both boys had a shivery feeling of being watched, but no sign was apparent as they floated in behind the point of the island and noiselessly beached the boat.
"We'd best stay close together," suggested Jerry in a whisper.
"And by all means don't whisper—talk in an undertone. A whisper carries twice as far," countered Phil. Jerry marked down one more to the score of the Boy Scouts.
But there was little need for talk. The brush was heavy, broken by thickets of plum trees and an occasional sapling of hickory; the ground was boggy in spots, and once Jerry sank almost to his knees in oozy mud. A screech owl hooted in a tree close by, and cold shivers ran up and down their backbones. Unbroken by path or opening, the island wilderness lay before them.
They walked hours it seemed, trying their best not to advertise their coming in breaking limbs and rustling leaves, for the night was uncannily still. It was a great relief, therefore, when the underbrush suddenly gave way to a few low trees and after that open ground. Jerry was for plunging right ahead, relying on the darkness, but Phil caught his arm.
"Circle it," he commanded, and Jerry, little used to obeying orders as he was, at once saw the wisdom of the idea and agreed. They were nearly halfway around the open plot when they struck a path, evidently leading to the river. But the other end must go somewhere, and they strained their eyes into the darkness.
"A house, I do believe," mumbled Phil.
"Shall we risk going closer?"
"Got to. Not a sound now. Let's take off our shoes."
In their stocking feet they stealthily drew nearer the dark blot against the background. When they were within twenty feet they saw it was not a cabin, but one end of a long, narrow, shed-like structure, perhaps twenty feet wide and running far back into the darkness. They approached it cautiously and began feeling carefully along the higher side for some sort of door or opening. They had gone a good thirty feet, their nerves tingling with the hope of next-instant discovery, when Phil broke the silence with a low-toned sentence.
"There's a house or cabin of some kind less than twenty feet away."
Jerry did not look. His groping fingers had found something that felt like a door-edge. His hand closed over a knob.
"Here's the door!" he exclaimed eagerly, and then felt his heart almost stop beating. The knob had been turned in his hand! But before he could say a word, a sudden "Sh!" sounded from his companion.
"Did you hear it?" gasped Phil.
"What?" asked Jerry, his voice trembling in spite of him.
But Phil did not answer—there was no need. From the cabin came a sound that set every nerve on edge. It was a groan—the groan of someone in great agony.
In the excitement of hearing that groan, Jerry forgot every other thought. Both boys jumped at once to the same conclusion: Tod was in that cabin! Perhaps he had been hurt, or perhaps, even, that ruffian was mistreating him. With one accord they broke for the cabin, making for where a thin pencil of light hinted at a door. They wasted no time fumbling for the knob, but put all the strength of their shoulders against the opening.
The door gave, suddenly, and they tumbled over each other into a dimly lighted room. It was fortunate for them that there was no one there, for in falling Phil overturned a chair, which in turn managed to become entangled in Jerry's legs, who came to the floor with a suddenness that did not give Phil time to get out of the way. Half stunned, they lay there panting, till a renewal of the moaning aroused them to quick action.
Phil jumped to his feet and caught up a leg of the chair, that had been broken loose in the triple fall. It was well to have some sort of weapon. The sounds seemed to have come from above, where a trap door indicated a loft or attic of some sort. The boys looked wildly about for some means of getting up to the trap door, but the light of the smoky kerosene lamp revealed nothing. The chair might have helped them, but it was wrecked beyond hope.
"Perhaps if we called to him, he might answer," ventured Jerry huskily.
"First see if you can reach the trap door if you stand on my shoulders." Phil made a stirrup of his hands and gave Jerry a leg up. Wabbling uncertainly, but managing to straighten himself, Jerry caught at the edge of the opening.
"Nailed!" he exclaimed disappointedly as he jumped to the floor. "Shall we call?" Phil nodded.
"Tod. Oh, Tod!"
Only silence. Again they called.
"Tod—Tod Fulton."
There was an answer this time, but not of the sort nor from the direction the boys expected. It was more like a whine than a groan this time, and it came from the far side of the room. For the first time the boys noticed that there was a door there, partly open. They made a rush for it, Jerry in the lead. But he got no farther than the threshold. As he reached it, the door was flung open in his face.
In the doorway stood a sixteen-year-old girl, a slim, black-haired slip of a thing, her black eyes snapping. One hand was doubled up into a fist that would have made any boy laugh, but there was no laughter in the other hand. It brandished a wicked looking hand-axe, and it was evident from the way she handled it that there was strength in those scrawny arms.
"You get out of here!" she commanded, advancing a step.
Jerry backed away hastily, but Phil only laughed, trying to balance himself on the two and a half legs of the wrecked chair.
"I've seen you before, Lizzie, and you don't scare me a bit with that meat axe."
"It's no meat axe; it's a wood axe—look out for your heads," she retorted scornfully. "Clear out of here or I'll make kindling of both of you."
"Put down that cleaver, Lizzie, and let's talk sense. We came here to get Tod Fulton—he's my cousin, you know——" but that was as far as he got.
The girl, her face showing a determination that made nonchalant Phil jump up from his chair and beat a quick retreat, walked up on them, the axe flashing viciously back and forth before her.
"You're going to get off this island," she exclaimed, "and you're going to do it quick. No tricks now! The first one who makes a break gets this axe in the back—and I can throw straight. About face, now. March!"
There was nothing to do but obey. Sheepishly enough the boys turned and meekly let her drive them out into the dark. As she passed the lamp she caught it down from the bracket on the wall with one hand.
Thus they marched across the open ground, along the narrow path and out on the waterfront.
"Our boat is down at the other end of the island" remarked Phil, turning his head ever so slightly.
"I'll have my father bring it over to you in the morning," answered the girl relentlessly. "I see your friends waiting for you over on the other side, so it wouldn't be fair to keep them in suspense."
"You're surely not going to make us try to swim it?" pleaded Phil, pretending great consternation, hoping that he might delay their departure till something might happen to give them the advantage.
"That's not all I am going to do." Setting down her lamp on a convenient rock, and changing her axe to her left hand, she stooped over and picked up a pebble. With a quick jerk she drew back her arm and then shot it out, boy-fashion The boys heard the stone hum as it sailed through the air. An instant, and then a howl of pain arose from one of the Scouts dancing about the blazing camp fire on the other shore. It was a good hundred yards away.
"I just did that to show you what'd happen to you if you didn't head straight for that gang of pirates over there," she said grimly.
"You'resome—tomboy!" exclaimed Phil, admiringly, Jerry thought, but the girl only laughed sarcastically.
"You first," she demanded. "You're just watching for a chance to catch me off my guard. I'm onto you."
Phil had no choice, so without more ado, he plunged in and began cutting the water neatly in the direction of the camp fire.
"He swims well, doesn't he?" remarked the girl, so easily that Jerry could have sworn she was about ready to laugh.
"He sure does!" he agreed. "He's got me beat a mile. Say," he coaxed, "we didn't mean any harm. We were just looking for a boy who was supposed to have got drowned up the river a piece but we believe landed here on Lost Island. Just tell me whether he's alive or not, and we won't bother you any more."
"Oh, you're no bother. In fact, I rather enjoyed your little visit—though I will admit you scared me a bit when you held the knob of the door to the hangar——"
"Hangar? What's that?"
"It's—it's French for—woodshed," the girl stammered. "It's your turn now," motioning toward the water.
"But won't you tell me about Tod?"
"Did you ask my father about him?"
"If itwasyour father, yes."
"And he didn't tell you!"
"No, and he wouldn't let us search the island."
"Well, I'm my father's daughter. So into the briny deep with you. I hope the fish don't bite you."
"But, look here," began Jerry, then fell silent and moved toward the waters edge, for the girl had picked up a handful of large pebbles and stood plumping them meaningly into the river.
The water was warm, and aside from his clothes, Jerry did not mind the swim. After he had stroked along perhaps a third of the way, he turned on his back. The light had disappeared from shore. He had a moment's impulse to turn back, but was afraid she might be waiting in the darkness to greet him with a laugh and an invitation to take to the water again.
He turned once more and swam steadily across the current. But after a little, once more he turned on his back, only kicking occasionally to keep himself afloat. He fancied he had heard some noise that did not belong with the night.
There it was again, that regular beat as of wood striking against wood. He listened intently, trying to place the sound. Finally, it dawned on him that it was a boat, rowed by means of a pair of loose oars.
His mind worked quickly. It could not be the Boy Scout boat, for the sound was not right for that. It could only be the man of the island, "Lizzie's" father—she had as much as said he was away. At any rate, Jerry decided, he would wait there and find out. If the worst came to the worst he could always dive out of sight.
Nearer and nearer came the boat. Jerry lay in the water with only his nose showing. He was too heavy-boned to be very good at floating, but the barest movement of hands or feet kept him from going under. At first he could make out nothing, but as his eyes focused more sharply he distinguished a slow-moving shape against the gray of the sky. It was barely twenty feet away, headed almost directly at him.
A few noiseless strokes put him inside the boat's path, but when he stopped paddling he realized to his horror that the boat had changed direction and was cutting in toward the island. It was almost upon him when he dived.
He was not quick enough. The landward oar caught him a flat blow across his eyes. Blinded, dazed, his mouth full of water, he flung up his arms. He had a vague sense of having caught hold of something, and he held on. Through a sort of mist he heard a voice saying laughingly:
"Hit a snag, John. Better be careful or you'll wreck the ship in sight of harbor."
Little by little Jerry's head cleared and he realized that he had caught hold of the stern of the boat. He could not see over the edge, but he could tell that there were two people in the boat, both men. They talked fitfully, but for the most part their voices came to Jerry only as meaningless mumbles. Once more the dark outline of Lost Island lay before him, and in Jerry's heart arose a new hope that perhaps this time he would not come away empty-handed. The boat grounded on the beach where he and Phil had stood only a few minutes before. The man who had been at the oars jumped out and pulled the boat well up on shore. Jerry, finding that he could touch bottom, had let go and now stood well hidden in the water.
"You might as well wait here in the boat," said the one who had gone ashore. "I won't be gone but a minute."
He moved up the bank. It was the same man Jerry had encountered twice before on his island visits. But who was the man in the boat? Jerry wished he dared come closer.
The minutes passed slowly, and the water did not feel as warm as it had at first. He was greatly relieved when once more he heard the rustle of someone coming through the tall grass. But though the sound came nearer and nearer, Jerry, his nerves literally on end, found the wait a long one. Would the man never get there?
But the delay was quickly explained. There were two instead of one crunching across the beach, and the other stumbled as he walked and would have fallen more than once had it not been for the supporting arm of his companion. Jerry could have shouted from joy had he dared, for some instinct told him that that swaying form belonged to no one but his chum, Tod Fulton.
And then, in an instant, the mystery was all made clear—at least for the instant. The man in the boat rose and struck a match so that the other could see to help wobbly Tod to a seat. As the light flared up full, Jerry had a good sight of the face of the man who stood waiting.
It was Mr. Fulton!
And then it was that Jerry saw that the temporary clearing of the mystery only made things darker than ever. For, why should Tod be rescued in this weird fashion? Why had the man refused to let Tod's friends come on the island? And why, why had Mr. Fulton laughed at Jerry's story—and yet followed his clue in this stealthy way? Jerry, up to his nose in the water, and deeper than that in perplexity, saw that the whole affair was really no longer the mystery of Tod Fulton's disappearance, but the mystery of Lost Island.
So, although he now felt safe from bodily harm, because of Mr. Fulton's presence, he made no sign, but waited there a scant dozen feet beyond the stern of the boat. He heard Tod answer a few low-toned questions of his father, but could not make out either question or answer. He saw Mr. Fulton pick up the oars and poise them for a sweep, dropping the blades into the water to exchange a last sentence with the shadow who stood waiting on the bank.
"Everything all right, then, Billings!"
"Varnish on the left plane cracked pretty badly, Mr. Fulton. I had to scrape it off and refinish it. It really ought to have another day to dry."
Jerry repeated, puzzled, to himself: "Left plane—what in thunder's that?"
Billings went on:
"You won't forget to bring the timer. Elizabeth will get it at the usual place if you can leave it by noon."
"It'll be there, Billings."
Not a word more was said as the boat was swung about and headed out into the stream, save that Mr. Fulton chuckled:
"Old Billings rather had you worried, eh, son, until he gave you my message?"
Tod laughed, so heartily that Jerry, who had watched his chance to cut out into the wake of the boat and hold on behind with one hand, could not himself forbear a little happy ripple.
"What was that?" exclaimed Mr. Fulton, a full minute after.
"I don't know," answered Tod. "I was waiting for it to come again.Sounded like—onlyhecouldn't be here."
"Who couldn't?"
"It sounded like a laugh—and there's only one person, outside of a billygoat, who's got a gurgle like that."
"Your wetting didn't tame you down any, did it? Who's the goat you had in mind?"
"Jerry King—well, what in the world!"
Over the back of the boat clambered a dripping, wrathful figure.
"I'll be switched if I'm going to be dragged along at the tail of this scow and be insulted any longer. I laugh like a billygoat, do I? For two cents I'd scuttle the ship!"
But Jerry's anger was more put on than real, and under Mr. Fulton's banter and Tod's grateful appreciation of the attempted rescue, he soon calmed down.
"What was the matter with you back there on the island? We heard you groaning as if you'd green-appled yourself double."
"Groaning? Me groaning? Huh! Say, next time you go bearding damsels in distress and rescuing castaway fishermen, you learn how to tell the difference between a bulldog who's whining to get out and get at you, and a wounded hero. It's a good thing you didn't have a chance to follow up that 'groan'—you'd havegroanwiser."
"One more like that, Tod," suggested Mr. Fulton wearily, "and I thinkI'll take a hand myself."
"But why," Jerry wanted to know, "didn't you come back home right away—if you weren't hurt?"
"Oh, but I was. You try going over that dam once and see if your insides-out don't get pretty well mixed up. I got a terrific thump on the back of the head when the boat turned turtle, and if I hadn't had a leg under the seat, I'd be in Davy Jones' locker right now. When I came to I didn't know whether I was me or the boat. I had gallons of water in me and—and I think I swallowed a worm or two; the bait can got tipped over—and all the worms were gone—somewhere."
"But why did you stay——" Jerry began, feeling vaguely that Tod was talking so much to keep him from asking questions. But he was not allowed even to ask this one, for Mr. Fulton interrupted with:
"I got busy right away after you had told me about your Lost Island clue, and soon got a message through to—to Mr. Billings there. When he told me Tod was safe and sound, I thought I'd wait until I had finished some important business I just couldn't leave. That's how it was so late before I got here."
"Mr. Billings came and got you, didn't he?" remarked Jerry, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice. If they had a secret that was none of his business,hewouldn't pry.
"Yes," said Mr. Fulton, and made no further explanation.
"But there were two of you on the island after me, weren't there? Who was the other hero?" Tod wanted to know.
"Where were you, that you knew there were two of us?"
"I was all doubled up in that little anteroom where the dog was—doubled up laughing." Then he added hastily, thinking he had teased poor Jerry far enough: "But I was locked in."
"Why locked in, if Mr. Billings had gone to bring your father? Afraid you'd up and rescue yourself?" Jerry's tone was downright sarcastic.
"No, Jerry—you see, the island—that is," looking toward Mr. Fulton as if for permission to go on, "that is, there's something going on on Lost Island that Mr. Billings figures isn't anybody else's business, and he didn't want to take chances of my nosing around."
"I see," said Jerry dryly. "So of course rather than row you across to dry land himself he brought your father here to get you. It's all as plain as the wart on a pumpkinhead's nose!"
"Now, Jerry, you're getting way up in the air without any cause. I'll tell you this much, because I think you've got a right to know: Mr. Billing's secret really is mine. Just as soon as I dare I'll tell you all about it. But what became of your friend—if thereweretwo of you?"
"I was so peeved that I forgot all about Phil. It's Phil Fulton——"
"What!" cried Tod. "Cousin Phil. Where is he?"
"Standing on the bank just opposite Lost Island and figuring out how soon he ought to give me up for drowned or hand-axed by a savage female. He may have gone for the sheriff by this time—or the coroner. Better take me to shore here and I'll go back."
Mr. Fulton began pulling the boat toward shore. "How did he happen to get into this?" he asked.
Jerry told him the whole story of the encounter with the Boy Scouts. "They've pitched camp there, so I guess I'll see if they can dry me out and put me up for the night," he finished.
As the boat neared shore Tod began to show signs of suppressed excitement. Finally, as Jerry was about to jump out into the shallow water, being already soaked through, Tod began coaxingly:
"Why couldn't I go on with Jerry, dad? You told me you'd let me go camping with the bunch, don't you remember? And I promised Phil I'd show him the best bass lake in the country——"
"I ought to take you back to town and let Doc Burgess look you over. Maybe the bones are pressing on your brain where you bumped your head. You act like it. But the fact is Ididn'twant to go back to Watertown—I ought to chase right down to Chester for that timer. It was promised for to-morrow, and there isn't a minute to be lost. There aren't any falls down this way, are there?" he asked with mock seriousness.
"Come on, dad, say I can go!" begged Tod.
"We-l-l," hesitated Mr. Fulton, "suppose we say I'll let you stay till morning—or night, rather. Then we'll see."
Jerry jumped out at this point and splashed his way to shore. He had a feeling that the two might want to talk without being overheard. Apparently he was right, as for a good five minutes the two conversed in low tones. Jerry tried his best not to hear what was said, but every now and then a sentence reached his ears. But it was so much Greek as far as he was concerned.
He had walked inland a bit, finally striking the narrow path that fishermen had cut along the top of the high bank. It swung back toward the edge, cut off from view by a rank growth of willows. He noticed that the boat had drifted downstream until it now stood almost opposite him, and only a few feet from shore. Thus it was that, as Mr. Fulton backed water with his left-hand oar and rammed the nose of the boat toward the shelving beach, he heard one complete sentence, distinct and understandable.
"It's up to you, Tod, to get them away. We can't afford any complications at this stage of the game. To-morrow is the day!"
"Trust me, dad!" exclaimed Tod, going up and giving his father's shoulder a squeeze. Jerry waited for no more. Bending low, he scurried far down the path, so that Tod could have no suspicion that his chum had overheard.
"Are you coming?" he shouted when he felt that he had gone far enough.
"Hold up a second and I'll be with you. Good night, dad."
"Good night, Mr. Fulton," shouted Jerry in turn, then waited for Tod.
The journey to the Boy Scout camp was made in silence, for Jerry did not feel that he dared ask any more questions, and Tod volunteered no further explanation. Just outside the ring of light cast by the deserted camp fire, however, Jerry halted and asked:
"Thought what you'll tellthem?"
"Why, no. Just what I told you, Jerry."
"You can't—unless you tell them more. They'd never be satisfied withthat."
"I'm sorry, Jerry. I'd like to tell you the whole yarn, but—but you see how it is."
"I don't but I guess I can wait. Only I do think you ought to have something cooked up that would stop their questions. Will you leave it to me?"
"Surest thing you know. What'll you say?"
"That's my secret. You play up to my leads, that's all you've got to do.Hello, bunch!" he shouted.
"Wow! Hooray! There he is!" came cries of delight from the darkness in the direction of the river, and a moment later the boys, who had been almost frantic with worry over the non-appearance of Jerry, came trooping up. When they found Tod with him, their joy was unbounded. Their excited questions and exclamations of surprise gave Jerry a much-needed instant in which to collect his story-inventing wits. At last Phil quieted down his dancing mob and put the question Jerry had been awaiting:
"How did you do it?"
"That's the funny part of it. I didn't. Tod's dad came along and did it for me."
"I hope he beat up that old grouch——"
"Huh, you got another guess coming. They're old friends——yes," as a cry of unbelief went up, "that's why Tod was in no hurry to be rescued. His name's Billings, and Mr. Fulton used to be in business with him. Is yet, isn't he, Tod?"