Andrew Jellison, carrying McCormick’s gun, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. He was pleasant and genial, entering into the conversation now and then in a perfectly natural way, while not thrusting himself forward too much, and was, in short, so totally different in every way from what he had been—ill-tempered and overbearing of manner—the night before, that he scarcely seemed the same man. It was almost as if a great load had been removed from his mind and the reaction made him as light-hearted and free from care as a boy. Merriwell wondered at the change. Perhaps he had misjudged the man when he credited him with an ulterior motive in intruding upon them. Possibly the man’s nerves really had been worn to a shred and he had wanted nothing more than a little while in the peaceful quiet of the wilderness to brace him up. There was no question of his ability to handle a gun, nor of his interest and enthusiasm in the pursuit of game. To him belonged the credit of the first bird bagged, and throughout the morning he kept up to the good record he made at the beginning. For a time they all kept pretty well together. Then, little by little, they split up, each man taking the route which he thought most favorable, having planned to meet at a certain point about twelve o’clock for lunch. About eleven Dick started up a covey of birds and became so interested in their pursuit that he forgot all about the time and was consequently late reaching the point of meeting. When he came out of the bushes to the broad, rocky spur of the low mountain, he found the others seated near at hand busily engaged in devouring sandwiches. “Better hustle, Richard, if you want anything,” Fitzgerald admonished, rather indistinctly. “We were so hungry we couldn’t wait another minute.” Merriwell came forward and dropped down on the rock. “How many?” Buckhart asked. “Nine,” returned his chum. “Great! That beats the record so far.” “Where’s Jellison?” Dick asked suddenly. He had been conscious of something or some one missing ever since he came out of the thicket. Fitzgerald shrugged his shoulders. “Search me,” he returned airily. “Haven’t seen him since we split up.” There was a little furrow of anxiety on Dick’s brow. He was thinking of McCormick’s very evident worry lest Jellison be left alone in the house. The fellow had come with them that morning quite of his own accord, but that did not prevent his hurrying back there as soon as he could do so without attracting attention. What had Mac to fear from him, anyway? Was it possible that the man knew what lay under the hearth? As Dick puzzled over the problem, all his doubts and fears and perplexities returned in full force, and did not add in the least to his pleasure in their little outing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIII NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON.