"We'll go to the door," d.i.c.k suggested. "Perhaps we can get inside.

At any rate, we can find out whether there is any one inside who wants help."

d.i.c.k put his hand on the doork.n.o.b, giving it a turn and a hard push.

"Door's locked tightly now," he announced.

"And it takes human hands to lock a door," Reade observed sagely.

"Is there anyone inside who needs any help?" Prescott called loudly.

All was silent inside. Then d.i.c.k played a tattoo on the locked door with his fists. Still no sound from inside.

"All together, now," urged d.i.c.k. "Any---one---want---help?" bawled six l.u.s.ty young voices in unison.

"There is only one voice that answers," continued d.i.c.k, after a pause, as he turned to the others. "That's the silent voice of good sense."

"What does it say, then," challenged Dave.

"That we've done about all we can do here," d.i.c.k replied. "All we know is that a man seemed to have been hurt here. If he was, he was able to take himself away, and to conceal the signs of his hurt before going. Therefore we've no further excuse for meddling around here that I can see."

"Let's get along then," Tom urged. "And---whew! It's after half past six!"

"You'd better run, then," jeered Dave. "Your stomach won't allow any more fooling!"

"Now, what ought I to say to a crank like Darry?" demanded Reade, turning to Prescott.

"You'd better overwhelm him, by saying what the man on the clubhouse steps said," urged d.i.c.k.

"And what was that?" asked Tom eagerly.

"We-ell," hesitated d.i.c.k, "I believe that's still a secret."

The Grammar School boys were now walking rapidly through the woods, but at mention of the clubhouse topic all had gathered close to their young leader.

"Aren't you going to tell us now?" demanded Greg.

"I'm afraid not right away," responded Prescott slowly.

"See here, d.i.c.kins," growled Dave Darrin, "for months you've been stringing us about what the man on the clubhouse steps said.

Time and again you've sprung that on us, and you've never given us the slightest satisfaction. Now, you'd either better tell us, or shut up about the man on the clubhouse steps."

"All right," sighed d.i.c.k. "I'll-----"

"Well?" insisted five boys in the same breath.

"I reckon I'll shut up," d.i.c.k rejoined.

"Say, somebody ought to hit d.i.c.kins!" grunted Reade.

"That's right," grinned Dan. "Well---let Tom do it."

d.i.c.k continued to smile mysteriously. He enjoyed this good-natured teasing of his chums.

"What are we going to tell folks about what we saw at the cottage?"

queried Dan after another five minutes of trudging.

"If we tell anything at all," suggested Prescott, "I'll tell you how we can win a prize."

"How?" demanded Tom innocently. "By telling the truth," d.i.c.k smiled. Soon after the Grammar School boys came out on the road.

"See that group 'way ahead there?" asked Tom, pointing down the road.

"Yes," nodded d.i.c.k. "That's Rip's crowd, so we know they didn't get hurt."

"Then the only one who did get hurt," Tom added, "was the man who was very soon able to take mighty good care of himself."

"So we don't need to bother about the matter any more," Greg hinted.

"And, gracious! I hope mother has saved some supper for me."

"It'll be a cold hand-out for me," groaned Hazelton.

The Grammar School boys were soon on Main Street now. They hurried along, as they had not yet come to the point of parting.

"Look at that crowd down the street," called Dave. "There's some excitement in the wind."

"I'm not nosey," observed Tom.

"No," scoffed Darrin; "you're too hungry."

"I'm going to see what the excitement is about, anyway," muttered Hazelton, starting forward off a run.

One by one the other boys yielded to curiosity and started at a jog-trot for the corner where the crowd was gathered.

"No; the poor fellow isn't crazy in the ordinary sense of the word," d.i.c.k heard a tall man, finely dressed in black, say to some of the bystanders. "He's harmless enough, and his mind isn't permanently astray, if only he can have prompt and good care.

But he's inclined to get away by himself and ponder over his inventions. If he leads a too solitary life long enough he may be past the possibility of a cure one of these days. That is why Colonel Garwood is so anxious to find his son, and offers such a handsome reward for information."

"Some one missing?" asked d.i.c.k in a low voice.

"Yes," nodded a man in the crowd. "A crazy inventor is lost, or he's loose, at any rate, and his old father is trying to find him. There is a reward of twenty-five hundred dollars for the lucky fellow who finds this inventor with the monkey wrenches in his brain."

"What does the man look like?" asked d.i.c.k.

The tall man in black overheard the question and wheeled quickly.

"Amos Garwood is the missing man," said the tall man. "He is forty-seven years of age, about five feet eight in height, slightly stooped, very pallid and with cheeks slightly sunken. When last seen Amos Garwood was rather poorly dressed. He has just escaped from a sanitarium, and the only person who has seen him since reports that he looked 'hunted' and anxious, and that his cheeks were considerably sunken. Garwood has dark hair, slightly gray at the temples. He probably weighs about-----"

"Pardon me, sir," d.i.c.k interposed. "What kind of beard does the missing man wear?"

"d.i.c.k Prescott has found him," laughed one man in the crowd.