Part 10 (1/2)

”That sounds good to me, Max,” remarked Owen, nodding his head attentively.

Toby was here heard to make a jumble of sounds, being still too excited to get his vocal cords in decent working order. He kept pointing at a nail that had been driven into the tent pole.

Now, strange to say, Steve was really the quickest to understand what the stammering boy meant, when he became twisted up in this way.

”He says his sweater is gone, the dark-blue one that his guardian, Mr.

Jackson, gave him just a week ago on his birthday. And he left it hanging there on that old nail,” was Steve's explanation of the strange jumble of sounds Toby was giving forth.

”And that's true every word of it,” put in Max at that moment; ”for just as I turned to quit this tent, as we were going off, that same sweater fell down off the nail. I stopped long enough to hang it up again. So if it's gone, the thief took a notion he could make good use of it.”

Toby remained silent with indignation for a long time; and in his case this was not a mere figure of speech either, but a grim reality, for he was tongue-tied.

”Let Max hunt around, and see if there are any tracks,” said Owen.

”That's the ticket!” added Bandy-legs; and both the others nodded their heads in immediate approval of the scheme.

Whenever it came down to a showing of woods lore, Max was the one always designated to handle the matter. His chums believed him capable of discovering almost anything going, if only a few faint tracks had been left behind.

Nothing loth, Max started in to look; but he knew in the beginning that the task would be a difficult one, and the results not at all equal to the exertion put forth.

Still he did find several places where a footprint, not at all like any made by their own shoes, seemed to tell where the intruder had stepped, in making his rapid rounds of the camp.

”There was only one thief, boys,” he announced, after he had looked carefully.

”Man or boy, do you think, Max?” asked Owen.

”A man; and I should say a pretty hefty one, too,” replied the other, with conviction in his voice.

”Why, how c'n you tell that, Max, without ever once gettin' sight of the feller?” demanded the astonished Bandy-legs.

”Oh, shucks, how dense some people are!” put in Steve, scornfully. ”Why, stands to reason, don't it, that a big man'd wear shoes ever so much longer than a little man, or a kid? Well, look at that print Max is pointing to right now! Don't think any Shafter, Toots or Beggs made that, do you?”

”Gos.h.!.+” exclaimed Bandy-legs, staring; ”he must 'a' been a giant, sure.

I never did see a bigger shoe print, honest now. And, boys, it ain't the nicest thing going to know that monster is right here, marooned on this island with us.”

”Now what makes you say that, Bandy-legs?” demanded Steve. ”How d'ye know but what he come across from the mainland?”

”Why,” the other hastened to say, as though proud of having his opinion asked, ”he'd have to swim, then, because Max here said there wasn't a sign of a boat landin' anywhere along the sh.o.r.e. Fact is, the island is so rough that boats would find it pretty hard to land anywhere, but on this little beach right at the foot, and made just for such a thing. And then again, Steve, don't you forget about that queer old cabin, now. He lives there, sure as you're born!”

”Whew, six more nights!”

That was Toby Jucklin finally getting his breath; and as there was no telling when he would talk steadily, or stammer, none of his campmates thought it at all strange to hear him say these words calmly and evenly.

Toby had been wrestling with those miserable vocal cords of his for so long a time that he now had them under control for a short period at least.

”Can we stand it, fellows?” asked Owen, more to find out how the others felt than because his faith was becoming wobbly.

”Sixty, if you said the word!” declared the impulsive Steve, grimly; ”why, after accepting that dare, a dozen critters like this one we haven't ever seen yet couldn't frighten _me_ away from Catamount Island; no siree, bob!”