“Did you hit him?”
“What was it?”
“Say, we’d better get out of this!”
Tom, Jack and Bert thus cried in turn. As for Dick he said nothing, and he did nothing, for he could not see to run in the darkness of the cave, and the rush of air, following the shot from his gun, had put out the match Tom was holding up.
“Show a light there,” called the marksman. “I think I plugged him all right.”
Tom struck another match and held it high above his head. Dick stood his ground, and Bert and Jack, who had started to run, came back to the mouth of the cave.
“No, I didn’t get him. I can see his green eyes yet!” shouted Dick. “Here goes for another shot.”
“Hold on!” cried Tom.
“What’s the matter?” asked Dick. “Don’t you want me to hit the beast?”
“I would if there was one there,” spoke Tom, quietly, “but there’s no use wasting powder and lead on a stone wall.”
“A stone wall?” gasped Dick.
“Yes, that’s what you shot at. Look,” and Tom, advancing into the cave, held up a piece of wood he had lighted as a sort of torch, against the rocky wall of the cave. “That was what you thought were the glittering eyes of some animal,” he went on, and he pointed to two shining particles of mica in the rock. They were about the distance apart of an animal’s eyes, and when the match was reflected from them Dick mistook them for the orbs of a bear or some other beast. He had fired on the instant.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” gasped the marksman.
“You’d have plugged him if it had been anything,” said Tom, as he held the little torch still closer to the rocky wall. Then they could all see where the shot from Dick’s gun had flattened out between the glittering bits of mica.
“Some shot, that,” complimented Bert, who, with Jack, had entered the cave.
“I should say yes,” added Jack.
“And in the dark, too,” came from Tom. “Well, fellows, we’re here. We’ve got a shelter, and now if we only had something to eat, we’d be all right.”
“That’s so,” agreed Bert, as he and Jack lighted some dry sticks of wood they had picked up on the floor of the cave. The place was now comparatively light.
Dick lowered his gun, which he had been holding in readiness for another shot if necessary, and as the torches blazed up more brightly, he uttered a startled cry.
“What is it?” demanded Tom. “Do you see a bear?”
“No, but I see where there’s been a fire in here,” answered Dick, “and, unless I’m mistaken, there’s something here to eat.”
“Get out!” cried Bert incredulously.
“Don’t raise our hopes,” pleaded Jack. “I’m half starved.”
For answer Dick went farther back into the cave where his companions could see some boxes. Then came a cry of triumph.
“It’s all right fellows!” shouted Dick. “Someone has been camping here, and they’ve left enough stuff so we won’t starve until morning, anyhow. Here’s some canned meat, some crackers, a bit of stale bread, and a coffee pot. There’s coffee too, if my nose is good for anything!”
“Hurray!” yelled Jack. “Hold me, someone, I’m going to faint.”
“Is it real food?” demanded Tom.
“It looks like it,” answered Dick.
“Then, fellows, get in some wood, strip some bark for torches and we’ll make a fire and eat,” suggested Tom. “Is there anything we can get water in, Dick?”
“Yes, here’s a battered pail. It may leak, but I guess it will hold enough for coffee. And there are some tin cups, too.”
“Good! Bert, you get some water. We passed a spring just before we found this cave. See if you can locate it. Jack, you and Dick sort this stuff out, and I’ll get wood for the fire.”
Thus Tom soon had his little force busily employed. From the depths of despair they had been transported to delight in a short time.
A quick survey showed that the cave had been used by campers, and that within a day or two. There was enough canned meat and crackers left for at least two meals, and with the coffee, a supply of which, already ground, Dick found in a can, and with some condensed milk, the boys knew they would not starve.
“This is great luck!” exclaimed Tom, as Bert came back with the pail of water.
“It sure is,” assented Jack. “I wonder who has been here?”
“I shouldn’t wonder but what Sam and Nick were,” replied Tom.
“What makes you think so?” they asked him.
“Because there are two cups, two knives and two forks, and two tin plates. That shows two fellows were here, and Sam and Nick are the most likely ones I can think of.”
“Could this have been their main camp?” asked Dick.
“I hardly think so,” replied Tom. “I believe they just found this cave—or maybe Mr. Skeel did—and they may have made this a stopping place just to be nearer the old mill.”
“Or maybe they have been searching for the treasure in here,” suggested Jack.
“It’s possible,” admitted Tom. “Well, anyhow, let’s see what sort of a meal we can get, and then for a rest. I’m dead tired.”
It was a very primitive supper that they managed to cook over a fire built in the cave. There was a natural ventilation to the place, so the smoke did not annoy them much. They warmed some canned roast beef in a battered skillet, opening the can with a jackknife.
Coffee they made in the dented pot, and then they had to take turns eating, as there were only enough table utensils for two at a time. The table was a box in which the stuff had evidently been brought to the cave.
“Oh, but I feel better now!” exclaimed Jack, with a contented sigh, when supper was over.
“So do I, and I’ll feel better still when I find my boat,” came from Tom.
“We’ll have another hunt for her in the morning,” suggested Bert.
“And we may have good luck,” added Dick. “I think the finding of this cave and the food means that our luck will take a turn.”
“It needs to,” said Tom grimly.
For beds they cut spruce and hemlock boughs, spreading them out on the floor of the cave, and, though it was not like their comfortable cots, they slept fairly well, not being disturbed. After a breakfast, on what was left from the previous night, they held a conference.
“What’s best to do?” asked Tom. “I don’t want to always be giving orders.”
“Sure, you’re the camp-captain,” declared Jack. “We’ll listen to you. I should think you’d have to find the boat first, before we can do anything else. We can’t swim back to our camp, that’s certain.”
“Well, if that’s the general opinion, we’ll have another try for the boat, walking along the lake shore,” agreed Tom.
They set out, and retraced their route of the previous day, coming finally to the lake. As the place where the river entered was quite broad it was out of the question to swim it, or, rather, they did not like to risk it, in such unknown waters.
So they followed the lake shore for a considerable distance farther than Tom and Bert had gone the previous evening. They climbed a high hill, that gave a good view of the lake, but, strain their eyes as they could, they had no glimpse of the Tag.
“They’ve either got her well hidden, or else they have sunk her,” was Tom’s despairing comment.
“Oh, maybe we’ll find her,” said Jack, more cheerfully.
“Say, I’ve just thought of something!” exclaimed Bert.
“What is it?” his chums asked him in a chorus.
“It’s this! That old hermit must have some sort of a boat. He never could get on the other side of the lake, where we are camped, and over here again as quickly as he does without crossing in a boat. I believe he must have some sort of a craft hidden in the river near the mill.”
Silence followed Bert’s advancement of his theory, and then Tom exclaimed:
“By Jove! old man, I believe you’re right. Why didn’t we think of that before? Of course he has a boat! He never could get around the way he does if he didn’t have. And it’s up to us to find it. Come on back. We’ll walk along the river bank until we get to the mill. Then we’ll look for the boat.”
Buoyed up by new hope, they started back, and, proceeding cautiously, they soon were below, and opposite, the ancient mill.
“It’ll be on this side,” decided Tom, “and probably hidden under some bushes. Look carefully, and don’t make much noise. We don’t want old Wallace to chase us again.”
The river was far enough below the old mill so that ordinary sounds made at the stream could not be heard at the structure. But still the boys were cautious. They kept a sharp lookout, too, for any sign of the old hermit.
Up and down the bank they went, peering under bushes, and in little coves formed by water eddies. Suddenly Jack cried out:
“Here it is, fellows! An old tub, but it’s got oars, and we can row to camp in it.”
They ran to where he stood beside an old skiff. It looked to be leaky and unsafe, but it was a boat, and they would have almost welcomed a wash-tub in their plight.
“Quick!” exclaimed Tom. “I think I hear someone coming. Get in and shove off.”
They lost no time in embarking, and, when they were afloat on the river, they found that the craft was better than she looked.
“I guess we can get to camp in this,” said Tom with a sigh of relief. “And, on our way, we may see the Tag.”
“If we’re not caught before we get into the lake,” spoke Jack grimly.
Apprehensively they looked in the direction of the old mill. All they heard was the rustle of the wind in the trees. The place seemed silent and deserted.
“Say, things are happening all right!” exclaimed Dick. “I never imagined camping was so exciting.”
“Oh, things generally happen where Tom Fairfield is,” remarked Jack, with a laugh.
Dick was at the oars, and rowed rapidly down stream, being aided by the current. In a short time they were far enough below the mill to make it practically impossible for the old hermit to catch them.
“Unless he has our motorboat,” put in Bert.
“In that case I’ll let him capture us, and then I’ll take the Tag away from him,” said Tom firmly.
Out on the lake they floated. It was a bit rough, but the skiff was a broad and heavy one, and made a good sea boat. They took turns rowing, meanwhile keeping a watch for Tom’s craft, but they did not see her.
“You don’t appreciate a motorboat untill you have to row!” exclaimed our hero, as Bert relieved him at the oars.
“Oh, well, we’ll soon be in camp,” consoled Dick, and an hour later they were opposite their tents.
“Everything seems all right,” said Tom, with an air of relief. “Now to see if we’ve had any visitors.”
The boys found their camp undisturbed, save for the visit of some small animal that had tried to carry off a tough paper bag filled with some small groceries.
“The bacon’s all right this time,” commented Tom. “I guess we got the lynx that was taking it.”
“And now for a square meal!” exclaimed Bert. “I’m nearly starved. Hustle, boys, and get some grub on to cook. Or, even if it’s cold, it doesn’t matter.”
“Hustle yourself!” exclaimed Jack. “Everyone for himself, I’m going to open a can of chicken and make some sandwiches.”
“Sardines for mine,” commented Tom.
They had no bread, for their supply was gone, and the teamster from Wilden, whom they had engaged to bring in supplies, was not due until the next day. However, they made out very well with crackers, and ate, so Tom said, as much as if it had been a regular meal, instead of a lunch.
“But we’ll have a regular supper,” declared Dick.
“Will you cook it?” they asked him.
“I sure will,” he answered, “though it isn’t my turn.”
The edge taken off their appetites, they sat at ease about the camp, and talked of their adventure. Drawn up on shore was the skiff they had confiscated from the hermit.
“I wonder if he’ll make much of a row when he finds it gone?” mused Jack.
“What if he does?” asked Tom. “Either he took our boat, or some of his friends did—meaning Skeel or the two lads with him—so it’s only turn about if we took his craft. We had to get back to camp; didn’t we?”
“Sure we did, and if he says anything we’ll tell him so,” came from Bert. “How are you coming on with that supper, Dick?”
“Oh, I’ll start it pretty soon,” and, after some further talk the country lad began. He rummaged among the stores and soon an appetizing odor came from the kitchen tent.
“That smells great!” exclaimed Jack.
“Some kind of soup, anyhow,” declared Bert.
“And he’s frying something,” added Tom. “You just let Dick alone and he’ll get up a meal. He’s a natural cook.”
And the meal to which Dick called his chums a little later was certainly a good one—for boys out camping. There was a canned soup to start with, and then fried chicken.
“Fried chicken—think of that!” cried Tom. “Talk about being swell!”
“It’s only canned chicken, fried in butter, and seasoned a bit,” explained Dick modestly. “I opened some canned corn to go with it. Have some?”
“Sure!” there came a chorus, and three plates were quickly passed toward the amateur cook.
“One at a time,” he begged. “I’ve got some—”
He paused for a moment and then cried:
“The potatoes! They’re burning! I forgot ’em!”
He made a rush for the cooking tent, ignoring the out-stretched plates, and the others became aware of a scorching odor.
“Wow! but that’s mean!” exclaimed Dick ruefully, as he came back wiping the perspiration from his face. “They’re burned to nothing. The water all boiled off ’em. And they were sweets, too, the only ones we brought along,” he added.
“Never mind,” consoled Tom. “We’ve got enough to eat without ’em.”
“Sure,” agreed the others. They finished off the meal with crackers and a jar of jam, with coffee on the side.
“Some better than what we had in the cave,” commented Bert, passing his cup for a second helping.
“Oh, but that tasted good all right!” declared Jack gratefully.
“I wonder what Sam and Nick will say when they find their stuff gone from the cave?” asked Dick.
“Do you think it was theirs, Tom?” asked Bert.
“I certainly do. I’d say it was Skeel’s, only there was stuff for two campers. Besides, I don’t believe he’d rough it in that fashion. But I sure would like to see Sam and Nick now—not that I have any love for ’em—but I want my boat.”
After spending the evening talking about the events of the past two days, and taking another look at the plan of the old mill, the lads turned in. They slept soundly, for they were very tired.
“Well, what’s the programme for the day?” asked Jack of Tom, following a bountiful breakfast, for which Bert made pancakes from prepared flour, and served them with bottled maple syrup.
“We’ll have another hunt for the boat,” decided Tom. “I’ll take a few more cakes, cook,” he added, passing his plate to Bert.
“You will—not!” ejaculated the maker of them. “I want some myself. You’ve had ten at least, and if you think it’s any fun making griddle cakes in a frying pan, you just try it yourself.”
“Just give me one,” pleaded Tom, and he got it.
“Say, if we go out in the boat we may miss that teamster who is to bring our stuff,” suggested Jack. “And I’d like to send a letter or two back by him, to be mailed.”
“That’s right—so would I,” agreed Tom. “We’ll wait until he shows up before going out on the hunt.”
So they spent the morning writing letters. The teamster arrived about noon, with some food and supplies for them. He stayed to dinner, and declared it was one of the best he had eaten.
“Folks back in Wilden would have it that the hermit had made away with you,” he said.
“Not yet, though he got our boat, or somebody has,” said Tom.
“Pshaw! That’s too bad. I hope you get it back. Well, I guess I’ll be going. Will you be breaking up camp soon?”
“Not until we solve the mystery of the mill,” declared Tom firmly.
“Oh shucks! Then you’ll be here all winter,” declared the man, with a laugh. “There’s no mystery of that mill except what old Wallace makes himself. He’s a little cracked in his upper story, I think.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” admitted Tom. “But, all the same, I think there’s something in it, after all, and we’re going to have another try at it, some day.”
They went rowing out on the lake after the teamster had left, taking their letters with him. It was small pleasure in the heavy skiff they had confiscated, but they were not out for pleasure just then—they were looking for the motorboat.
They covered several miles of lake shore, but saw no sign of the Tag, and only gave up when it was evident that they would not get back to camp before dark unless they hurried.
The next day the search was just as unsuccessful, and for several more they kept up the hunt. They saw no sign of either Mr. Skeel, the two cronies, or the hermit.
“Well, I give up,” remarked Tom, despondently, one afternoon. “I don’t believe we’ll ever get that boat back.”
“It does begin to look a little dubious,” remarked Jack. “Still, luck may turn at the last minute. Where you going?” he asked, as he saw his chum start toward the forest back of the camp.
“Oh, just to take a walk. Anybody want to come?”
“Not for mine,” answered Jack. “I’m just going to be lazy until supper time.”
“Same here,” added Dick.
“You won’t get any supper for two hours at least,” declared Bert, who was filling the position of cook.
“Well, I’m going to take a walk and do some thinking,” said Tom. “See you later.”
He strolled away, and the beauty of the woods on that perfect summer day must have lured him farther than he thought. He was thinking of many things, of the mystery of the old mill, of the disappearance of his boat, and their life in camp.
“Guess it’s time I started back!” he exclaimed about two hours later as he noticed the shadows lengthening. “I wish I could think of some solution of that old plan-drawing,” he murmured.
Even though he hurried he did not reach the camp until darkness had almost set in. As he approached the place a strange silence about the tents seemed to smite him like a blow. In spite of himself he felt a fear.
“Hello, boys!” he called. “I’m back. Where are you?”
There was no answer. He looked all around. There was not a sign of his chums. The old boat was drawn up on shore, showing that they were not out in that. They could hardly be off in the woods at this hour.
He hurried to the cook tent. Preparations for supper had been under way, but that was all. Some of the pots and pans had been knocked to the ground. The place was in some confusion, but that was natural. Of Tom’s chums there was not a trace. They had mysteriously disappeared!
“What in the world can have happened?” asked Tom, speaking aloud to himself. He had to do that to drive away some of the loneliness that thrust itself upon him as he walked around the deserted camp. “There’s something queer been going on, and I’m going to find out about it,” he added determinedly. “Maybe they’re hiding away from me for a joke.”
He made a round of the little spot there where they had camped in the wilderness, but there were few places for his chums to have hidden save in the woods themselves—the woods that were on three sides of the tents, the lake forming the fourth boundary.
“Well, if they’re in there they’ll wait a good while before I go hunting for them,” he said. “If it’s a joke they can come back when they get ready.”
And yet, somehow, he felt that it was not a joke. He and his chums were as fond of fun as any lads, and, in times past, the boys had played many a trick on each other. But there was a time for such antics, and Tom realized that this occasion was not now. He knew his comrades would realize the strain he was under, in losing his boat, and in trying to solve the mystery of the mill against the activities of Mr. Skeel and the two cronies.
“I don’t believe they’d do it,” mused Tom. “There is something wrong here. Hello, fellows!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Dick! Bert! Jack—Jack Fitch! Where are you?”
The echoes from the darkness were his only answers.
“They’re gone,” he said, “and yet, by Jove, I don’t believe they’d go willingly—unless—”
He paused, for many thoughts were crowding to his brain. He had a new idea now.
“Unless they saw something of Skeel, or Sam and Nick, and followed them off through the woods. Maybe the hermit himself passed here, and they thought he was on the trail of the treasure. They would naturally follow him, and if I wasn’t here they would not wait for me, knowing they could explain afterward. I’ll wager that’s it. They’ve gone for the treasure. It’s all right after all.”
He felt a little better, having arrived at this decision, and proceeded to get himself a meal. He lighted the stove, made coffee, and fixed up some sandwiches from a tin of beef. It was while sipping the hot beverage that another thought came to him.
“I wonder if they went away prepared to stay all night?” he asked himself. “I’ll take a look.”
In the main, or sleeping tent, the cots had been made up that morning, as was the rule, so that, no matter how late the chums returned to camp, they could tumble into bed. The cots showed no signs of having been disturbed when Tom inspected them with a lantern. And then the lad saw something else.
The caps and sweaters of his chums still hung from the ridge-pole of the tent.
“By Jove!” cried Tom aloud. “They would hardly go off that way—in the dampness of the night—without having taken more than they wore when I started on my walk. And they had on mighty little then. Even if they had to take the trail on the jump there would have been time enough to slip on a sweater, and grab up a cap. Those fellows went off in a big hurry.”
He paused, to gaze in silence around the tent. He was more lonely than ever, as he recalled the jolly faces that he had thought would greet him on his return from the stroll in the woods.
“And here’s another thing,” he reasoned. “If they did take the trail after some of our enemies, one of them would most likely have remained to wait for me, and tell me to come along. I’m sure they’d have done that. And yet—they’re all gone, all three of them!”
Tom Fairfield shook his head. The problem was becoming too much for him. He sought for a ray of light.
“Of course,” he reasoned, “there may have been two parties of them. Skeel and the two cronies in one, and the old hermit by himself. In that case the boys may have divided themselves. Maybe that’s it. Oh, hang it all!” he exclaimed as if he found the puzzle too much for him. “I’m going to wait until morning.”
But the morning brought no solution of the problem. Tom awoke early, after a restless night, during which he several times imagined he heard his chums calling to him. He would jump up, rush to the flap of the tent, toss some light wood on the camp fire, and peer out eagerly, only to find that he had dreamed about or imagined it.
Once or twice he called aloud, listening and hoping for an answer, but none came. And so the night passed and morning came.
Tom felt little appetite for breakfast, but he knew he must eat to keep up his strength for the task that lay before him.
“I’ve got to find them!” he decided. “I’ve got to take the trail. Something may have happened to them. That bear we saw may have—” And then he laughed at the notion, for he knew that a bear, however large, could not make away with three strong, healthy lads. “Unless there were three bears,” he mused, with a smile, “and that’s out of the question.”
He was thinking deeply, so deeply in fact that he forgot to look to the oil stove, and the first he knew the coffee had boiled over, and the bacon was scorched in the pan.
“Oh, hang it!” Tom exclaimed. “I can’t even cook!”
He fried more bacon, and an egg, and on that, and coffee, he made a lonely breakfast.
“Now to reason things out,” he spoke aloud. “I’m glad the rowboat is here anyhow, I can navigate the lake to a certain extent.”
He walked down to the shore, and what he saw there caused him to utter a cry of astonishment.
“There’s been a struggle here—a fight!” Tom cried. “The boys have been taken away against their will!”
He bent over and looked closely at the sandy shore. It was all too evident that some sort of a struggle had taken place there, and that recently. The marks visible by day but not at night proved this.
“Those marks weren’t there when we landed yesterday afternoon,” decided our hero. “Besides, they’re quite a distance from where we brought the skiff in. There’s been some sort of a boat here,” he went on, as he bent over the impression made by the sharp prow of some craft in the sand. “Someone came in a boat, got hold of the boys somehow, and carried them off. But there was a fight all right, and a good one, too, I’ll wager.”
It did not take a mind-reader to decide this. The sand in several places was scuffed about, raised up in ridges, or scratched into depressions, while the heel marks, deeply indented in the soft material, showed how desperate had been the struggle. But the chums had been overpowered, that was certain, for they had been taken away.
“And in my boat, too, I’ll wager!” cried Tom. “The impudent scallawags! To take my boat, and then use it to carry off my friends. They must have taken some of my gasolene, too. Oh, wait until I get a chance at them!”
The new discovery was overpowering for a time, and Tom sat down to think it out. Then he came to a decision.
“I’ve got to help my chums,” he said. “I’ve got to go to their rescue. There’s but one place where they would be taken. The old hermit, or Skeel and the cronies, have them in the old mill—or, hold on—maybe they’re captive in the cave where we stayed that night. Those are two places where they might be. What shall I do?”
It was no easy problem for the lone camper to solve, and Tom was frankly puzzled.
“I think I’ll tackle the old mill first,” he decided. “That’s the most likely place. Though I wonder why in the world the hermit or Skeel would want to capture Dick, Bert and Jack? Unless the treasure has been located, and they don’t want us to find out about it. But they haven’t got me!”
With Tom, to decide was to act, and so, putting himself up a lunch, he set off in the skiff for the old mill. It was hard rowing alone, for usually two worked at the oars, but our hero stuck to it, and in due time he reached the river. Then he decided to pay a visit to the cave.
He concealed his boat under some bushes, and, taking the oars with him, he hid them well up on the hill.
“If they get away with the boat, they can’t row, anyhow,” he reasoned, “and I don’t believe they’ll find her.”
He approached the cave cautiously, for he did not want to fall a victim to those who had captured his chums. But the cavern in the hillside was empty, and Tom felt a sense of disappointment.
“Now for the mill,” he mused, as he set off in the skiff again. He had almost reached it, and was debating within himself how best to approach it, when a new thought came to him.
“Suppose they catch me?” he asked himself. “They are four to one, and, though I don’t mind Sam or Nick, the hermit and Skeel would be more than a match for me. If they get me I can’t be of any help to the boys.”
Tom was no coward, and he would have dared anything to rescue his chums. Yet he realized that this was one of the occasions when discretion was the better part of valor.
“I think I can serve ’em best by staying on the outside a while,” he argued, as he got to a point where he could catch a glimpse of the old mill. “I’ll look about a bit,” he went on, “and see what sort of a plan I can think out.”
Keeping well in the shadow of the bushes that lined the river bank, he watched the mill. For half an hour or more there was no sign of life in it, and then, so suddenly that it startled Tom, there appeared at one of the third story windows the form of the old hermit, and he had a gun in his hands.
“There he is!” whispered Tom. “He’s on the lookout for me. Lucky I didn’t rush in. And he’s on that third floor, though there doesn’t seem to be any way of getting up to it. I’ve got to go for help,” and Tom, waiting until old Wallace had disappeared from the casement, slowly rowed away.
He reached the lonely camp late in the afternoon, for he spent some time going along the shore of the lake, searching for his motorboat. But he did not find it.
“Now what shall I do?” he asked himself as he sat down to a solitary supper. “Go for help, or try to make the rescue myself?”
Tom had two ideas, both centering about one subject—the rescue of his chums. That they were held prisoners in the old mill he had no doubt.
“Of course I could tramp into Wilden,” he mused, as he sat beside the campfire, “and get a posse of men to come here and raid the place. With them to help we could make short work of Wallace, Skeel and company, and we’d get the boys out. But then, on the other hand, that would give the whole game away. I’m sure there’s some sort of treasure in that old mill, or Skeel would never bother with trying to find it. The hermit must have, in some way, proved to him that it’s there.”
“Now, then, assuming that it is in the mill, or somewhere around it, do I want a whole crowd out here, overrunning the place, and maybe finding the treasure? I certainly don’t, even though they might not find it. But what would happen would be that a whole crowd of people, who have nothing else to do, would hang around here the rest of the summer, looking for the treasure if it wasn’t found at the time of the rescue. That would spoil our camp.
“Of course I’ve got to rescue the boys—that’s certain. I might get some of Mr. Henderson’s friends—a few of them—and make them promise to keep it a secret. Even then it would leak out, and the whole town would be out here sooner or later. We wanted to come to a wild place, and we found it. Now there’s no sense in making it civilized.
“No, I’ll work this thing out alone, and I’ll rescue the boys single-handed. I ought to be able to do it after I rescued dad and mother from that cannibal island, and got ahead of old Skeel. I defeated him twice and I can do it again, and I will!”
Now that he had come to a decision Tom felt more hopeful, and he began to go over plans in his mind. He had made and rejected half a dozen, from undermining the mill, and blowing a breach in the walls, to making believe set fire to it and getting in under cover of the confusion.
“But I don’t believe any of those schemes would do,” he mused. “I’ve got to use strategy against those fellows. They are evidently looking for an open attack, by the way the old hermit was doing sentinel duty in the window. I wonder how in the world he got up there when there are no stairs in the mill?”
Tom’s brain was getting weary with so much hard thinking. He felt as if he was back in Elmwood Hall, and had to puzzle over some hard geometry proposition.
“I’m going to bed,” he decided at length. “Maybe in the morning I’ll be fresher and can think better.”
He collected a quantity of dry wood, and had it in readiness to throw on the embers of the campfire. He also took a lantern with him inside the sleeping tent, turning the wick low, and he had a gun in readiness.
“I’m not going to be taken by surprise if I can help it,” he mused. “That’s how they must have gotten Jack and the others into their power. I’ll fight if they try to get me, and they might, for with one of us loose they know there’ll be an attempt at a rescue.”
Tom made himself comfortable on his cot, but for a time he could not sleep. Then he fell into a doze, only to awaken with a start as he heard someone prowling about the camp.
“Who’s there?” he called, sitting up and reaching out for his gun. There was no answer, and Tom arose and peered from the flaps of the tent. As he did so he saw a movement near the boxes where the provisions were kept.
“Get out of there!” he cried, as he fired in the air. A dark body leaped away and an ember of the fire, flaring up just then, revealed a small animal.
“Only a fox!” laughed our hero. “Go ahead, you’re welcome to all you can get,” for he had made the provisions secure before turning in. He was not again disturbed, and to his surprise the sun was high in the heavens when he awoke.
“I must have gotten in some good licks of sleep the latter part of the night,” he reasoned, as he stretched and arose. “Now for a good breakfast, and then to see what’s best to do.”
It was lonesome eating, all by himself, especially as he thought of the jolly times he and his several chums had had around the packing-box table.
“I wonder if they have anything for breakfast?” Tom mused, as he sipped his coffee. “Well, I hope I can soon get ’em back with me again. The hermit, or Skeel, probably captured them to prevent them from making any further search for the treasure. But I’m here yet!” and he closed his teeth grimly.
“Of course, after all, we haven’t any right to it,” he went on, “and if we do find it, and it belongs to old Wallace, I’ll see that he gets it. But I like the fun of hunting for it, and, since they’ve been so mean I’ll be mean too, and do my best to beat ’em.”
Breakfast over, Tom busied himself about the camp, washing the dishes, bringing in fresh water, and getting everything in order. It gave him something to do, so that he would not feel so lonesome, and he found that he could think better when he was occupied.
But, with all his reflection, he could not seem to hit on a plan of rescue. One plan after another was formed, only to be rejected.
“I know what I’m going to do!” he finally exclaimed. “I’ll take another trip to the mill, and see how things are now. I may be able to get to the boys, or at least signal to them that I’m on the job. They must be discouraged by this time.”
He rowed up the lake to the river, and, proceeding as before, paid a visit to the cave, thinking perhaps there might be some developments there. But the place was just as they had left it.
“Now for the mill!” exclaimed our hero. He went by a different route, this time, so as to get in the rear of the structure. But, though he looked for a long time at the broken windows, he saw no signs of his friends.
“If I could only signal them—get into communication with them,” he thought, “they might propose some plan of rescue. But I’m afraid I can’t. I’ll have to go it alone.”
He circled about until he had a view of the front of the mill. Looking up at the upper window he saw, not the old hermit, but Sam Heller on guard with a gun.
“They’re all there—all the conspirators,” Tom murmured. “Probably while one watches, the search for the treasure is going on. Oh, if I could only get in there!”
Tom waited around a bit, hoping someone might come out from the mill, or that the watcher with the gun would leave. But nothing of this kind happened.
“If they would only come out, one at a time, I might capture them,” he thought. “Then I could go in and do as I pleased. But that’s too good luck to have happen.”
It was evident that he could gain nothing by remaining where he was. He had no glimpse of his chums, and he could think of no way of communicating with them.
“If it wasn’t so far, I could write a note, wrap it around a stone, and heave it into a window,” he thought. “But then it might fall into wrong hands, and I’d be as badly off as before.
“Hang it all! I wonder what I’d better do?” he asked himself. “I haven’t been able to think of a thing. I guess, after all, I’ll have to get help. No, I won’t either!” he exclaimed, a moment later. “I’ll take another day or so to think it over, and then, if I haven’t hit on a plan, I’ll give an alarm.
“They won’t dare do much to the boys,” he reflected. “They’ll have to give ’em something to eat, even if it’s only bread and water, such as we got when we went on strike in Elmwood Hall. Yes, I’ll wait another day or so.”
Vainly giving a last look, hoping for some sign, Tom quietly made his way to the skiff, and rowed down the river again and across the lake to camp.
“Cæsar’s cats! but this is a lonesome place!” he exclaimed, as he looked about at the tents. “I never knew what it meant to have a jolly crowd with me before. This is like being a castaway on a desert island. Well, the only thing to do is to keep busy.”
He entered the main tent, intending to get on some of his older clothes and prepare a meal. As he stepped inside the canvas house he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“I’ve had visitors!” cried Tom. “And two-legged ones at that! Someone has been here, running about!”
Well might he say that, for the place was in confusion. The neatly-made-up cots had been pulled apart, the valises and suitcases, of himself and his chums, had been opened, the garments tossed about. Boxes and packages had been searched.
“This is the work of that old hermit, or else Skeel and his two cronies,” decided Tom. “They must have known I’d go away from camp, and they watched their chance to sneak in. Oh! if I had only known it!”
He looked about to see if anything had been taken, but there was no sign of anything missing, though it was hard to tell definitely because of the manner in which things were scattered about.
“I wonder what they could have wanted?” asked Tom aloud, and, having no one to answer it, he replied to his own question.
“It couldn’t have been me,” he resumed, “though they may have done this for spite because they didn’t catch me. No, that would hardly be it. They would have done worse damage if they had done it just because of anger. It was something else. They were searching for something. I have it! The plan I found! That’s what they want! Maybe, after all, it’s the original and not a copy, and they can’t go on with the search without it. That’s it, I’ll wager a cookie! I wonder if I have it safe?”
From an inner pocket he took the piece of paper containing the map.
“Here it is,” he murmured. “I’m glad I thought to take it with me, and not leave it around here. My! but they must be desperate to take such chances for this document. That shows how valuable it is.”
Returning the paper to his pocket, Tom took an hour or so to straighten out his camp. Then, getting supper, which he ate in lonesome silence, he sat down by the fire to think.
“I’d be glad even if we had a dog,” he mused. “The next time I go camping I’ll take one along. Now let’s see where we are at.
“Dick, Jack and Bert are prisoners in the old mill. That’s my first fact. Second, I’ve got to rescue ’em. Third, is this plan going to be of any use to me?”
Again he took it out to look at it, but the flickering of the campfire proved too uncertain, and he decided to go in the tent and examine it by the light of a lantern.
“Maybe, now that we’re not so excited over it, I can make out things on it that I couldn’t before,” he told himself. But the first half-hour’s scrutiny did not develop anything. The plan appeared to be just that and nothing more.
“And it’s here, in the third story, where the boys are held prisoners,” mused our hero, as he put his finger on that part of the drawing. “Only there’s no stairway shown, as far as I can see.”
He looked closely at the plan, lifting it from the table and holding it between himself and the light. As he did so he made a most remarkable discovery. He fairly shouted as he saw it.
For, drawn in some such manner as are the water-marks in paper, visible only when held up to the light, so on the plan, there was marked out a secret staircase, leading from the second to the third floor of the old mill!
“By Jove!” cried Tom. “I have it. Now I see why that wall was so thick. The secret staircase is built in the thickness of the wall, and it doesn’t show from either inside or outside the mill. In fact it doesn’t show on the plans at first glance, and probably the old architect who drew them used a peculiar ink so that no one would know about the stairs. They must have been made so that anyone could get from the second to the third story of the mill in a hurry, and be hidden there when there was an attack by enemies. Well, I’ve made one discovery. Now to see how they use the stairs.”
But this did not show on the plan, though Tom held it close to the light, hoping to discover lines so faint that a strong illumination was needed to bring them out. The secret staircase, plainly indicated now, seemed to begin abruptly on the second floor, at a point opposite the big stone grinders, and end on the third story. How to get to them was not shown, and, from what Tom remembered of the inside of the mill, he was sure that the interior wall at this point showed no break, and no signs of a secret door.
“But that’s not saying it isn’t there,” he said aloud. “I’m going to have another look, now that I know where to search. I’ll have the boys out yet!”
He was so excited that he could hardly get to sleep, and again he was making rapid plans for the rescue of his chums.
“I’ll start the first thing in the morning,” he told himself. “Hurray! I’m on the right track now! And maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find the treasure, too!”
By daylight he examined the plans again, holding the paper up to the sun. The secret staircase was shown more plainly, but there was nothing to indicate how it might be reached.
“It’s just as if it was hidden between the thick walls,” murmured Tom. “But there must be some way of getting at it, and I’m going to find that way. Let’s see, now; what do I need?”
He decided to take no weapon, for he did not believe the captors of his chums were desperate enough to fire.
“But I’ll take one of our pocket electric flashlights,” he decided. “I may have to work in the dark if I’m looking for a secret passage.”
What he would do when he got to the old mill, he never stopped to consider.
“I can’t make any plans until I reach there,” he decided. “I’ll just have to size things up, and act on the spur of the moment. Jinks! If I only had one of the fellows with me it would be easy, but playing a lone hand isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. However, I’ll do my best.
“Now let’s see. I’ll need a little grub, for I may not be able to get back to-day. And a blanket if I have to stay out in the open all night. I’ll take a little light axe along, and some matches. I guess that’ll be all. And the plan—of course,” he concluded, with a grim smile. “If they come for it again they’ll find it gone.”
Everything being in readiness for what he hoped would be his last visit to the mill to rescue his comrades, Tom got his lonely breakfast. It was not such a gloomy meal as the others had been, for he was very hopeful, and even whistled as he went about the camp, making things as secure as possible until he should return.
“And if I do get the boys, then for a grand final try for that treasure!” he exclaimed, as he pushed off in the clumsy skiff.
It was a perfect day, and as Tom thought of the fine weather his friends were missing he felt a wave of anger against Professor Skeel, the hermit and the two lads of Elmwood Hall.
“If those bullies come back to school in the fall!” exclaimed Tom, with a grim smile, “I’ll make the place too hot to hold them, that’s what I’ll do!”
Rowing with long, even strokes Tom propelled the skiff across the lake. Instinctively he swept his eyes along the shores for a possible sight of his motorboat.
“But it isn’t likely that they’d allow her to get away from them,” he argued. “Though I’ll get her sooner or later.”
He turned the point that hid a view of the river entering Lake Woonset, and, as he did so he uttered a cry.
“By Jove! Is it possible!” he shouted, standing up in the skiff. “It is, as I’m alive!” he added. “Oh, of all the good luck!”
For, just ahead of him, idly floating on the calm surface of the lake, was his missing motorboat!
Tom rubbed his eyes. He wanted to be sure he was not dreaming, or seeing a vision of his lost motorboat. And yet, as his sight cleared, he knew he could not be mistaken.
“It’s her!” he cried. “It’s the dear old Tag all right! Jinks! but I’m in luck! Now, if none of those fellows are in her, I’ll soon be aboard. And if she’s in running order—”
He paused in apprehension. What if the hermit’s crowd had damaged the machinery so that the craft would not run? Tom felt himself grow cold with fear at this possibility.
“I’ll soon see,” he murmured, and he settled down into a long, even stroke that quickly brought him close to the floating craft.
Now he proceeded more cautiously, for he realized that there might be a plot—an ambuscade to trap him, and make him a prisoner as were his companions.
“Ahoy the Tag!” he shouted, but there was no answer. The boat continued to drift with the current of the river which made itself felt thus far out in the lake.
“Guess there’s no one home,” murmured Tom. “So much the better. I’ll soon be aboard.”
A few more strokes put him alongside, and a quick look into the interior of the craft showed him that the machinery, at least, was intact.
“Though whether she’ll run or not is another question,” he said aloud. “Come, Tag,” he went on, half whimsically, “be nice now, and start for me.”
He looked into the gasolene tank, and saw that he had enough for a run of several miles, enough to get to the old mill, and back across the lake to camp again.
“That is, if I get the boys,” he mused; “I shan’t leave without them this time,” and he shut his teeth grimly. Testing the batteries, he found that the vibration from the coil was strong, and he took out a spark plug to note the current. It jumped blue and spitefully from point to point, when he laid the plug on a cylinder head, and turned the flywheel to make the contact.
“So far so good,” murmured Tom. “Now to see if she’ll start. Probably because everything is all right she won’t, but she ought to. Oh, if only motorboats would do as they ought to!”
The first turn of the flywheel resulted in a sort of surprised cough. The next gave forth a sneeze, as if the engine had just awakened.
Then came a vigorous “chug!” at the third turn.
“Come, we’re getting on!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh—his first good one since the disappearance of his chums and the boat. “As soon as she finds out I’m in her, instead of the old hermit and his crowd, I think she’ll behave herself.”
Tom’s prophecy proved correct, for with the next turn of the flywheel the boat started off as if she had never had an intention of doing anything else.
“Hurray!” cried Tom. “Now for the mill and the boys. But I guess I’d better throttle down, for she’s making too much noise. No use giving my game away in advance.”
He cut down the gas at the carburetor, and proceeded at half speed, meanwhile wondering what he would do when he got to the mill, and puzzling his brains as to how his enemies had allowed the boat to get out of their possession.
“I’ll have a peep at the bow line,” he murmured, and when he looked at the end of it he uttered an exclamation. It was frayed and worn. “That accounts for it,” he went on. “They tied the boat where the line could cut and chafe against a rock, and she worked herself loose. Good old Tag! I guess she knew I wanted her.”
Tom actually patted the engine of his craft, as though it was a thing alive. He headed in toward the river, towing the skiff behind him. He intended to return the small craft to the place whence he and his chums had taken it, after the affair was all over.
“Though we may need it in the meanwhile,” he said. “And there is no use letting it fall into our enemies’ hands right away. They might use it against us.”
Reaching the mouth of the river, Tom slowed down his power still more, so as to make less noise, for he could not tell what minute the hermit, or some of those with him, might set out in search of the missing boat.
“And I don’t want them to take me unawares,” he said grimly.
He decided that he would do as had been done on a previous occasion—hide his boat some distance from the mill, and proceed the rest of the way on foot. He took particular pains to hide his craft this time, selecting a place where an eddy from the stream had followed out a miniature bay in the bank. It was well screened by overhanging bushes and trees, and as there were several others like it along the river, it would take a good guesser to pick out this particular one at first.
Tom marked the place so he would know it himself, even if he came past in a hurry, and then, having arranged the bushes so as to further screen his boat, and gathering up his package of food, the small axe, the blanket, and his light, he set out.
It was nervous work, for he realized that because of the loss of the boat a searching party might be out looking for it.
“But they’re likely to stick to the river,” he argued, “and if I strike inland a bit, and go that way, they’re not so apt to find me. I’ll do it.”
He had to pass near the cave where they had spent the night the time they first missed the boat, and he looked inside the cavern. To his surprise it showed signs of occupancy since he and his chums had been there.
“They have been here,” he argued. “Or maybe it was the hermit, who spent a night here, instead of in the mill.”
There were signs that a fire had been recently made, and food cooked, and there were portions of the latter scattered about. Tom, however, did not stay long there. It was getting on toward noon, and he had much before him.
On the top of the bank, overlooking the river, he found an old trail, which he followed. It was narrow, showing that probably only one man had traveled it in recent years.
“The old hermit,” mused Tom. “This is one of his paths. It must lead right to the mill, and it’ll take me there as well as if I had gone along the river, and a deal safer, too.”
He walked briskly until he judged that he was close to the ancient structure, and then he proceeded more cautiously. As he came in sight of it he crouched behind the bushes, fairly crawling on until he had a good view.
His first glimpse was at the window where he had seen the sentinel stand with a gun, and to his surprise and disappointment, he now saw the sun glinting on the barrel of a weapon.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Tom. “No chance of taking them by surprise. And they aren’t out, as I half-hoped they’d be. They are still on guard. I’ve got to wait.”
He sat down under a bush and ate some of the lunch he had brought, sipping water from a bottle he had in his bundle. Then, after a half hour, he looked again. The gun was still pointed out of the window, seeming to be aimed at whoever should advance directly against the mill.
“Still there,” mused Tom angrily. “They are taking no chances.” Intently from his screened post of observation, he watched the gun barrel. Then a strange thought came to him—a thought that sent the blood tingling through him.
“Of course!” he cried to himself. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Now to see if I’m right.”
Boldly he stood up, in plain view of anyone from the window. The gun did not move to follow his action. It remained pointing in the same direction.
“That’s it!” he exulted. “The gun is just fixed there! No one is holding it. It’s just like the trick once played in some battle. It’s a dummy gun. Hurray! I’m all right now. They have gone out, and left the gun pointing from the window to scare anyone who might come along.”
Still Tom did not abandon all caution. He realized that though those guarding his chums might be gone from the top story, they still might be somewhere in the mill.
“I’ve got to be careful,” our hero assured himself. “But I’ll take a few chances.”
Approaching until he stood close under the open window from which the gun protruded, he tossed a stone up. It fell within the casement, and Tom heard it drop on the floor.
“That ought to raise something,” he said, looking warily around to see if he was observed. There was no movement, and no one appeared.
“Here goes for another,” said our hero. This time his stone hit the gun barrel, and it tinkled resoundingly. But it was not moved, proving conclusively that it was fastened there and not held by hands.
“If I could only get Jack or some of the others to answer,” thought Tom. “I guess I’ll have to get inside and let ’em know I’m here. But how?”
It was quite a puzzle. He knew he could not get to the third story from inside the mill, or at least he did not know the secret of the hidden staircase.
“I haven’t time to hunt for a trick door,” he told himself. “I’ve got to find a way that’s plain to be seen. And I don’t want to go inside unless I have to, either, for if they are hiding and playing some trick they’ll nab me sure.”
This thought made him look around apprehensively, and he decided to make a circuit of the mill from without, in order to make sure there was no one on the outside.
He moved away from in front, and went to one side, the place where, on the plans, the secret staircase in the thick wall was shown to be. The ground sloped away on this side, and as Tom came opposite a pile of stones, he was startled and surprised to hear a voice saying:
“Oh, if only Tom would come!”
“Yes, I don’t see why he doesn’t,” another voice answered.
“Maybe they have him, too,” spoke a third person.
Tom stood as if electrified.
“My chums!” he murmured. “Their voices! But where do the sounds come from?” He looked around to find the source of the hidden tones, but he could see nothing.