"I am sure I don't know. But come to think of it, he did look like----" And then Roger broke off in confusion. "Look like what, Roger?" asked Dave, quickly. "Oh, never mind, Dave, let's drop the subject and talk about what we are going to do with Link Merwell." "I think I know what you were going to say," went on our hero, and he tried to speak calmly although his heart gave a sudden jump. "You were going to say that Ward Porton looked like my Uncle Dunston and like me." "Well, if you must know it, Dave, that is what did come into my mind. I don't think he resembles you quite as much as he resembles your uncle, to be really honest." "Oh, say, Roger, drop that!" interposed Phil, hastily. "I think Dave looks a good deal more like his uncle than Porton looks like Mr. Porter." "It's a queer mystery, that's certain," returned Dave, slowly. "I don't like it, I must say," and his face showed more concern than it had for a long while. "Don't you take this too seriously, Dave!" cried Roger. "I believe at the most it's only some game gotten up by Link Merwell. Now that we have him a prisoner and can send him to jail for that robbery, more than likely you won't hear anything further about it." "I sincerely hope you speak the truth," was our hero's sober reply. After a plain but substantial meal, Link Merwell was taken to the woodshed and told he would have to remain there until morning. Then the boys cast lots to find out who should go on guard first. "I'm number one," announced Phil, after drawing one of a number of slips of paper placed in a cap. "And I follow you," announced Luke. "I'm guard number three," came from Ben, and the other boys announced what slips they had drawn. Usually the woodshed was dark, but now a lantern had been hung on a nail to illuminate the place. There were two doors, one connecting with the bungalow proper, and the other leading into the backyard of the place. There was also a small window, over which in times past several stout wooden bars had been nailed to keep out prowling wild animals. "Think I'll run away, eh?" remarked Link Merwell, as he sat down on the couch which had been placed in the woodshed. "You'll not get the chance," returned Phil, who had armed himself with one of the double-barreled shotguns. "If you try to get away, Link, you'll get a dose of shot in you, just as sure as fate." "Humph! I don't think I'll want to run away," grumbled the prisoner. "There is no place to run to in this forsaken section of the country. What you folks can find here to make it pleasant is a mystery to me." The door leading to the outside had been closed and bolted. The other door leading to the bungalow proper was left open for ventilation, and Phil sat on a low stool beside it, with the shotgun across his knees. "Are you quite sure you can manage him, Phil?" questioned Mr. Wadsworth, as he came to the doorway after the others in both bungalows had retired.