At the Ba.s.swood bungalow an entrance to the kitchen and pantry had been effected through the woodshed, the door of which had been broken open.

From this shed a trail led up to the jagged rocks previously mentioned.

"The same rascal or the same crowd that did one job did both," declared Dave.

"I don't know what we are going to do for breakfast," declared Mrs.

Wadsworth, rather helplessly. "We have next to nothing to cook, and nothing to cook it in."

"We are in the same fix," answered Mrs. Ba.s.swood. "It certainly is a terrible state of affairs. I wish my husband was here to tell us what to do."

"Oh, don't worry about something to eat!" cried Dave. "We can go down to Carpen Falls and get whatever we want, and also get some extra kitchen utensils, and don't forget the deer-meat. What worries me is the loss of Laura's rings and Mrs. Ba.s.swood's silverware."

"We might go up into the woods and look around," suggested Ben, "although it's mighty wet up there from the rain."

The matter was talked over for a while longer, and in the meantime the ladies and the girls, aided by the hired help, made an inventory of what was left in the way of eatables.

"We can give all of you some coffee and some fancy crackers," said Mrs.

Wadsworth.

"And we have found two cans of baked beans," added Mrs. Ba.s.swood.

"They'll go some distance toward filling up the boys," and she smiled faintly.

"I'll tell you what we might do!" cried Roger. "Supposing four of us fellows jump into the four-oared boat and row up to the Appleby camp? I am sure they have plenty of provisions, and they'll lend us some until we can get in a new lot from Carpen Falls. And maybe they'll lend us a few cooking utensils, too."

"That's the thing to do!" returned Ben. "Come on, let's go up there at once;" and so it was settled.

Dave and Luke accompanied Ben and Roger on the trip; and as the four youths had often rowed together on the Leming River at Oak Hall, they soon covered the distance to the camp of the moving-picture people. They saw the crowd getting ready to depart for the enacting of the final drama in that locality.

"h.e.l.lo, you're out bright and early in your boat!" cried Mr. Appleby, as he waved his hand to them. "Taking a little exercise, eh?"

"No, we came for a.s.sistance," called back Ben.

"a.s.sistance!" repeated the manager. "What's the trouble?"

"We have been burglarized, and we have hardly anything left to eat!"

broke in Luke, and at this announcement all of those in the Appleby camp came down to the dock to learn the particulars of what had occurred.

"In one way you have come at just the right time to get those things,"

said the manager of the moving-picture company to the boys. "We are going to leave here to-morrow to go back to Boston, so we shall want but little of the food that is on hand. And you'll be welcome to use our tableware and kitchen utensils. They belong here in the cottage, so all you'll have to do when you get through with them will be to bring them back."

While rowing to the Appleby camp, Dave had been giving serious thought to his own affairs. He remembered what he had heard concerning Ward Porton and Della Ford, and resolved to question the young lady and the other members of the moving-picture company about the young man who claimed to be the real Dave Porter. Our hero's chance came when the other boys were busy placing some provisions and cooking utensils in the rowboat. He motioned Della Ford and her aunt to one side, and the three walked out of hearing of the others present.

"If you don't mind, I would like to ask you something about Mr. Ward Porton," said our hero, to the girl.

"O dear, I thought I was done with that young man!" cried Della, with a toss of her head.

"He bothered my niece so much while he was a member of the company she got quite sick of him," declared Mrs. Ford. "He was a very forward young man."

"I'd like very much to find out about his past history: where he came from, and all that," went on Dave. "It's something very important."

"I know more about Mr. Porton than he thinks I do," announced Della.

"That's one reason why I dropped him."

"But Della, you don't want to get into any trouble," interposed the girl's aunt, quickly.

"If you'll tell me what you know about Ward Porton, I'll promise that it won't get you into any trouble," answered Dave, quickly. "I want, if possible, to find out where he came from, and who brought him up."

"Who brought him up?" queried Mrs. Ford. "Didn't he live with his parents?"

"He says not. He claims to have come from a poorhouse in a town down in Maine."

"Why, you don't tell me, Mr. Porter!" exclaimed the lady, in astonishment. "He told me once that he had lived with his folks up to the time he was about ten years old, and that then his parents had died and he had gone to live with an uncle."

"Yes, and he did live with an uncle--or at least some man he called his uncle," added Della.

"Are you certain of this?" asked our hero, eagerly.

"I am, Mr. Porter."

"And may I ask what the thing was that you knew about him that caused you to drop him?" continued Dave.

"Wait a minute, Della, before you answer that question," interposed Mrs.

Ford, hastily. "I think we ought to know why Mr. Porter is after this information."

"Since we have gone so far, I may as well tell you," returned Dave. And in as few words as possible he related how it had come about that Ward Porton was now claiming to be the real Dave Porter.

"Why, what a queer story!" declared Mrs. Ford. "It sounds like some novel."

"I don't believe it's true, Mr. Porter!" cried Della Ford. "I believe he is a faker! At first I thought he was quite nice, but I soon discovered otherwise. He is addicted to gambling, and when he gets the fever he gambles away the very clothing on his back."

"Then that is why you broke with him?"

"That was one reason. But as I said before, I know more about Mr. Porton than he imagined. One day we had been out walking, and after he left me I picked up a letter which must have dropped from his pocket when he pulled out his cigarette case. As the letter had no envelope, I did not know whose it was, and read it. It was evidently written by a very angry man. The writer, who signed himself Obadiah Jones, said that he was sick and tired of putting up for Ward; that Ward could no longer expect any a.s.sistance from him; that he cast the young man off, and never wanted to hear from him again."

"And you say that letter was signed by a man named Obadiah Jones?" asked Dave, eagerly.

"Yes. Rather an old-fashioned name; isn't it?"

"Did the man give his address?"

"No, there was no address of any kind on the letter," answered Della Ford.

"Was this Obadiah Jones the man he said was his uncle?" continued our hero.

"I don't know about that," answered the girl.

CHAPTER XXIX