Chapter XIX: Strange Disappearances

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!