“What is it?” queried the amazed Dean. “A wild duck.” “You killed it?” “With a stone. The swamp is full of them. Come, the rest of the bread and broiled fowl won’t make such a bad meal, eh, Dean?” They enjoyed the repast immensely. “Now, to business,” said Marcus after it was over. “We will disrobe, put on these charcoal burner’s garments, burn the old convict suits--shoes, cap and all--for they might betray us, and grime our faces.” An hour later they had indeed altered their personal appearance wonderfully. The old blue canvas suits and begrimed faces gave the boys the look of regular charcoal burners. They saw the last vestige of the shameful livery of crime, the prison suits, consumed to ashes. Before abandoning his, however, Marcus drew from various pockets several articles. He revealed to the amazed Dean evidences of his patient ingenuity in imprisonment, and his provision for just such a contingency as the present one. “I made them out of bits of hair I picked up in the prison barber shop,” he explained to Dean. “See; here are two mustaches and wigs and side whiskers, and a patch for the eye.” The mustaches had been made by pasting individual pieces of hair upon a piece of buckskin from the prison glove shop. Marcus insisted that both he and Dean should wear one, and after cutting and pasting it, the appearance of wig and mustache, with the blue clothes and grimed faces, actually disguised the boys so that even the prison officials would not have known them. “Now, then,” said Marcus, “we had better stay here until to-morrow.” “And then?” “Proceed slowly and cautiously west.” “Toward Springfield?” “Yes, quite near to it, first.” “Have you some definite point in view?” “I have. Wait till we leave here, and I’ll tell you all about it.” They caught some fish for supper with a thorn fish-hook, and were undisturbed in their hermit-like occupation of the island that night. “We’ll start on now,” said Marcus the next morning. He glanced over a piece of paper in his hand as he spoke. “What’s that, Marcus?” asked Dean curiously. “A memoranda from the prison register.” “Where did you get it?” “Copied it when I was in the library sorting garden seeds.” “What is it about?” “You.” “Me!” ejaculated Dean surprisedly. “Yes.” “Why----” “It’s the chronicle of your case.” “Read it.” Marcus did so. Dean listened interestedly. It ran: “Convict No. 301: Name, Robert Rawley; charge, burglary; term, five years; complainant, James Rawley, uncle; committing officer, Justice Mullern; county, Wayne; township, Daleford.” “Well, well!” gasped Dean. “Robert Rawley! Does that mean me?” “I reckon it does.” “Uncle James Rawley?” “Yes.” “I’m stunned.” “I ain’t.” “You make it out?” “Plainly, and I’m going to find the man who had you arrested, and the justice who committed you at once. How lucky that I know somebody at Daleford. Once there, Dean Mercer, we are fairly on the trail of our enemies.” CHAPTER XXI.