The few remaining leaves rustled crisply in the sharp breeze which came from the distant Sound. Now and then one of them, loosened from its hold, sailed slowly and silently downward in many erratic circles, coming to rest at length on the thick carpet of red and yellow and golden brown. The tang of autumn was in the air. The sense of nature’s decay was evident everywhere. The very smell of fall, subtle and impalpable, but nevertheless unmistakable, was in the nostrils of the five men who rustled, single file, along the scarcely perceptible path which wound through the trees. Even Lysander Cobmore, the lean, wrinkled, weatherworn farmer who led the way, felt it in his blood, though he was not, perhaps, so acutely conscious of it as were the four Yale men who followed him. He viewed the coming of autumn with more or less mixed feelings. It heralded the approach of a long season of rest and hibernation which would be welcome after the strenuous work of the past summer. But it also meant snow and ice and many days of bitter cold when one would not venture far from the glowing kitchen stove. However, the crops had been successfully harvested and were under cover, and he was content to take things easy until the coming of the spring should start the ball rolling again. To Dick Merriwell and his three college mates, Brad Buckhart, Eric Fitzgerald, and Teddy Baxter, there was almost a feeling of intoxication in the crisp, cool air which sent their blood racing through their veins; in the delightful, earthy, leafy smell of everything; even in the gaunt, wintry look of the naked trees through which one could follow so easily the whirring flight of the partridge, or the swift, low scurry of a covey of quail. They had escaped the trammels of work for a few days’ shooting, and were like a party of schoolboys as they left Dick’s car, the _Wizard_, in one of Cobmore’s barns and followed their guide with springy steps and eagerly sniffing nostrils through the rustling woods toward the spot where they proposed to make their headquarters. “The house hasn’t been vacant very long, then?” Dick remarked presently. “Three weeks gone ter-morrer since old man Hickey was buried,” returned Cobmore, without glancing around. “Fur all he lived so long alone, you folks’ll find everythin’ neat’s a pin. I’ve bin over twice sence young Lawrence give me charge of it, an’ thar ain’t a thing out of place.” “Is that Barry Lawrence?” Merriwell asked quickly. “Yep. Know him?” “Yes; he’s a Yale man. You remember him, don’t you, Brad? He graduated three years ago.” “You bet I do,” returned the Texan promptly. “Didn’t he play end on the varsity? Nice chap, too.” “What relation was he to Mr. Hickey?” Dick inquired.