"'Tisn't going to do it any good buried here in the mud," Tom said.

"Well, 'tain't my loss, ony six dollars storage."

"Let's give it the once over," Tom said, in a way of half interest. The efforts of the night had been so strenuous that his casual interest in the car was something in the form of relaxation. It interested him as whittling a stick might have interested him. "Take a squint into that pocket there, Roy."

There was nothing but a piece of cotton waste in the flap pocket of the door nearest Roy, but Gilbert Tyson's ransacking of the other one revealed some miscellaneous paraphernalia; there was a pair of motorist's gloves, a road map, a newspaper, and two letters.

"Here, I'll give you the light," said Roy, as Tyson handed these things to Tom.

"You keep the light on the road," said Tom. "Let's have your flashlight."

"Now we're going to find out where the buried treasure lays hid--I mean hidden," said Roy. "We're going to unravel the mystery, as Pee-wee would say. 'Twas on a dark and stormy night----"

"Let's have your flashlight," said Tom, dryly.

CHAPTER XIII

THE UNKNOWN TRAIL

Gilbert Tyson and Roy sat in the car. Tyson had removed one curtain and Tom, standing close by, examined the papers in the glare of the flashlight which Tyson held. Bert Winton and Mr. Berry peered curiously over Tom's shoulder.

The map was of the usual folding sort, and on a rather large scale, showing the country for about forty or fifty miles roundabout.

"There's my little old home town," said Tyson, putting his finger on Hillsburgh, "home, sweet home."

"And here's little old Black Lake--before the flood," said Roy. "There's the camp, right there," he added, indicating the spot to Tyson; "there's where we eat, right there."

"And here's a trail up the mountain," said Tom. "See that lead pencil mark? You go up the back way. See?"

So there then was indeed a way up that frowning mountain opposite the camp. It was up the less precipitous slope, the slope which did not face the lake. The pencil marking had been made to emphasize the fainter printed line.

"Humph," said Tom, interested. "There's always _some_ way up a mountain.... Maybe the light we saw up there ... let's have a squint at that letter, will you?"

"Have we got a right to read it?" Winton asked.

"We may be able to save a life by it," said Tom. "Sure."

But the letter did not reveal anything of interest. It was, in fact, only the last page of a letter which had been preserved on account of some trifling memorandums on the back of the sheet. What there was of the letter read as follows:

hope you will come back to England some time or other. I suppose America seems strange after all these years. You'll have to be content with shooting Indians and buffaloes now. But we'll save a fox or two for you. And don't forget how to ride horseback and we'll try not to forget about the rattle wagons.

REGGY.

"That's very kind of Reggy," said Roy. "Indians and buffaloes! Poor Indians. If he ever comes here, we'll teach him to shoot the shutes. If he's a good shot maybe we'll let him shoot the rapids."

"They all think America is full of Indians," said Winton.

"Indian pudding," said Roy; "_mmm, mmm!_"

"Well, let's see the newspaper," said Tom. "I don't suppose there's anything particular in that. Somebody that lived in England has been trying to go up the mountain--_maybe_. That's about all we know. We don't know that, even. But anyway, he hasn't come back."

"Maybe he's up there shooting Indians and buffaloes," said Roy. "We should worry."

"When was it he came here?" Tom asked.

"'Bout several days ago, I reckon," said Mr. Berry.

"That light's been up there all summer," Winton said.

"Until to-night," Tom added.

For a few moments no one spoke.

"Well, let's see the paper," said Tom, as he took it and began looking it over. He had not glanced at many of the headings when one attracted his attention. Following it was an article which he read carefully.

AUTOIST KILLS CHILD

Negligence and Reckless Driving Responsible for Accident

DRIVER ESCAPES

An accident which will probably prove fatal occurred on the road above Hillsburgh yesterday when a car described as a gray roadster ran down and probably mortally injured w.i.l.l.y Corbett, the eight-year-old son of Thomas Corbett of that place.

Two laborers in a nearby field, who saw the accident, say that the machine was running on the left side of the road where the child was playing and that but for this reckless violation of the traffic law, the little fellow would not have been run down.

The driver was apparently holding to the left of the road, because the running was better there.

Exactly what happened no one seems to know. The autoist stopped, and started again, and when the two laborers had reached the spot where the child lay, the machine was going at the rate of at least forty miles an hour.

All efforts of town and county authorities to locate the gray roadster have failed.

"That's only about ten miles from where I live," said Gilbert Tyson.

Tom seemed to be thinking. "Let's look at that letter again," said he.

"Humph," he added and handed it back to Roy.

"What?" Roy asked.

"Nothing," said Tom. "I guess this is the car all right."

"I don't see it," said Winton. "Just because it's a gray roadster----"

"Well, there may be other little things about it, too," said Tom.

"About the car or the letter or what?" Winton asked.