"Well, we've got our kitchen utensils and most of the tableware back, anyway," declared Roger, after an inspection of the hollow where they had first discovered the bear at work. "h.e.l.lo, here's the stuff Mr.

Bruin was after!" he added, holding up a chunk of meat which still lay in a pan in the hollow. This meat had been taken from the Wadsworth ice-box; but why it had been placed in the hollow was a mystery.

"But it's a good thing the burglars put it there," declared Luke. "That is what attracted the bear and made him dig."

A careful search of the hollow revealed nearly everything that had been taken from the two bungalows except Laura's rings and Mrs. Ba.s.swood's silverware.

"I guess they thought those things too valuable to leave here," was Dave's comment. "I am convinced of one thing," he added.

"What is that?" questioned Ben.

"I believe Link Merwell is at the bottom of this. No ordinary burglar would bother his head about that kitchen stuff. Merwell did it, just to cause us trouble. Maybe he thought we'd have to give up camping here for the time being."

"By Jove, Dave, I think you have solved it!" declared Roger.

"All of which doesn't give my mother her silverware nor Laura her rings," returned Ben.

A sapling with some stout branches attached was cut down, and on to this the boys rolled the bear and tied him fast. Thus they managed, after a good deal of hard labor, to haul the carca.s.s down to the bungalows.

"Oh, here they come, and they've got a bear!" shrieked Belle, who saw them first, and all the inmates of the bungalows hurried to the scene, even Mr. Lawrence hobbling up with the aid of a cane.

"Yes, we got a bear, and we got more than that!" cried Ben, excitedly.

"We've found all the kitchen stuff!" and he and the other youths gave the particulars.

A little later some of the boys returned to the hollow and transferred the stolen stuff back to the bungalows. A good deal of the canned provisions was still in perfect condition. The other things, including the meat the bear had scented, were thrown away.

"Oh, Dave!" cried Jessie, as soon as she could motion our hero to one side, "I've got something I want to tell you! I think maybe it will be of a.s.sistance in proving your ident.i.ty," and the girl's eyes glowed with antic.i.p.ation.

"What is it, Jessie?" he asked, quickly. "Have you heard something from home?"

"No, but I've heard something from Mr. Lawrence, Phil's uncle. Isn't it the strangest thing ever! I was talking to him after you left, and told him what trouble you were having, and mentioned Ward Porton and that man the Fords told you about, Obadiah Jones. And, would you believe it!

years ago Mr. Lawrence had some business dealings with a man named Obadiah Jones, and he is quite sure that man had a nephew who was named Ward!"

"Jessie! can this be true?" exclaimed Dave, with pardonable excitement.

"That's what Mr. Lawrence told me. I think you had better speak to him, and without delay."

"I certainly will!" declared our hero, and going up to the crowd that was still around the bear, he touched Phil's uncle on the arm.

"What is it, Porter? Oh! I suppose you want to see me about that man, Obadiah Jones. Well, I'll tell you all I know. Come on back to where I can sit down. This lame ankle of mine is still rather weak." And thus speaking Mr. Lawrence led the way around to the front porch of the bungalow.

"What I want to know is if this Ward Porton was really a nephew of Obadiah Jones," said Dave.

"Yes, that's what Miss Jessie wanted to know, too. Of course I don't know for sure, but I do know the boy's name was Ward and that he called Jones, Uncle Obadiah. You might write to Obadiah Jones and find out. He lives in Burlington, Vermont, and that's not so very far from here--just on the other side of Lake Champlain. His full name is Obadiah L. L.

Jones. We used to always call him Old L. L. About everybody in Burlington knows him."

"Perhaps I'd better go and call on Mr. Jones," suggested Dave. "I'd hate to wait for an answer to a letter."

It was not long before the others in the camp knew what Dave had learned concerning Ward Porton and his supposed uncle, Obadiah L. L. Jones. The boys agreed with Dave that it might pay to make a trip to Burlington to see him, and Phil and Roger volunteered to go along.

"You might want a witness or two," declared the senator's son.

The upshot of the matter was that the following day found the three boys bound for Burlington. The other lads helped to row them to the upper end of the lake, and there, at a camp belonging to a rich New Yorker, they managed to obtain a horse and buckboard on which they rode to the nearest railroad station. They were in time to catch the midday train for Plattsburg, where they had to remain over night. Then they caught the first boat across Lake Champlain to the city for which they were bound.

Dave had been told by Mr. Lawrence where they might find Obadiah Jones, who was interested in a coal, lumber, and real estate business. Our hero, accompanied by his two chums, found the man in his office, a small, dingy coop of a place surrounded by huge piles of lumber. He was a short, stout, bald-headed individual, wearing large spectacles, and he looked up rather uninvitingly as they entered.

"Is this Mr. Obadiah Jones?" questioned Dave, politely.

"That's my name, young man. What can I do for you?" demanded the lumber dealer, brusquely.

"I came to get a little information from you, Mr. Jones, if you'll give it to me," went on our hero. "My name is Dave Porter. I came to see if you have a nephew named Ward Porton."

"Well, I did have a nephew by that name, but he's a nephew of mine no longer!" cried Obadiah Jones, his face showing sudden anger. "If you came here in his behalf, the sooner you get out the better! I wrote to him and told him I never wanted to see him nor hear from him again!"

"I didn't come in his behalf, Mr. Jones. I came on my own account,"

answered Dave. "All I want to know is: Is he a real nephew of yours or not?"

"Yes, he's my real nephew--the son of my youngest sister, who married a good-for-nothing army man. But that doesn't make any difference to me, young man. I won't do a thing more for him, nephew though he is. He's a young scamp, and as I said before, I never want to see him nor hear from him again."

"The reason I ask is, because there has come up a question regarding Ward Porton's ident.i.ty," continued Dave, who could scarcely conceal his satisfaction over the turn the conversation had taken. "Porton declared to me that he had been brought up in a Maine poorhouse."

"That's all tommy-rot, young man! It isn't so at all!" stormed Obadiah Jones. "After his father ran away, to join some revolutionists in Mexico, his mother was hard put to it to support herself, and when she took sick and died, he was placed in the Lumberville poorhouse by some neighbors. As soon as I heard of it I sent for him to come to Montpelier, where I was then doing business. After that I brought him here. I gave him a good education and did everything I could to set him on his feet, but he began to smoke and drink and gamble, and get into bad company generally, and finally he left here and went on the stage as an actor. I heard he didn't do very well at that business, and so he got into the moving-picture business." Obadiah Jones looked sharply at Dave. "But what do you want to know all this for?" he questioned, quickly.

"I'll tell you why, Mr. Jones," answered Dave. And without waiting to be invited he sat down on a chair beside the lumber dealer and told the man the particulars of the trouble Ward Porton had caused him.

"Humph!" snorted Obadiah Jones at the conclusion of the recital. "That sounds just like one of Ward's fairy tales. Don't you take any stock in that story, because there is absolutely nothing in it. I have disowned him, it is true, but, nevertheless, he is my nephew, the son of my youngest sister, Clarice Jones Porton. Her good-for-nothing husband was Lieutenant Jarvey Porton of the army, who was discharged because of irregularities in his accounts. I never wanted her to marry the lieutenant, but she wouldn't listen to me for a minute."

After this a conversation lasting the best part of half an hour ensued.

The lumber dealer became quite interested in Dave's case, and readily consented to sign a doc.u.ment stating the facts concerning Ward Porton as he knew them. Roger, Phil and an office clerk witnessed the lumber dealer's signature, and then the boys bade Obadiah Jones good-bye and left.

"Dave, let me congratulate you!" cried Roger, grasping our hero's hand warmly.

"Oh, I knew it would all come out right in the end!" cried Phil, as he placed a loving arm over Dave's shoulder. "Say, you'll have one on Ward Porton when you show him that doc.u.ment!" he continued, with a chuckle.

"You don't know what a weight this has lifted from my shoulders,"

murmured Dave. And despite his efforts to control himself, two tears stood in his eyes. "The thought that I might not be the real Dave Porter after all was something terrible!" he murmured.

"What will you do; send word to Crumville and then go back to camp?"

asked Roger.

"I suppose that would be best," answered Dave. "I'll first send word home and wait in Burlington for a reply."

It was not long after this when they entered a local telegraph office, and there Dave wrote out a telegram addressed to his father at Crumville. He asked that a reply to the communication be addressed to a leading hotel of Burlington, where the three lads afterwards went for dinner.

"A telegram for Mr. David Porter!" called out one of the hotel boys, just after the lads had finished eating; and he pa.s.sed the communication over to our hero.

"It's from Crumville, and from my father," said Dave, as he glanced at the communication, which ran as follows:

"Your telegram received. Glad to know the truth. We had suspected Porton of trickery. Merwell is in the game."