“Come on now, fellows,” Whistler said, leading the way. “Keep together and try to make as little noise as possible. We don’t know how near that spy may be.” He had already found the second bunch of torn paper. Torry, walking close behind him, asked: “Will you know that German if you see him, Whistler?” “Sure. He’s dressed like one of these farmers or drovers. But he’s got a goatee and a little moustache. He doesn’t look German at all.” “You lads just point ’im hout to me!” grumbled Willum Johnson, walking next in line after Torry. They got into a piece of woods after a little, finding that the paper trail led along a well defined path. Whether the German spy knew, or did not know, this part of England, he seemed to have a direct object in view, if George Belding’s trail was a thing to judge by. This wood was nothing like the ordinary woods the American boys were used to around Seacove. It was cleared out like a grove, all the dry limbs lopped off the trees and stacked in certain places for firewood, and even the hedges thinned out for the same purpose. “Why,” Al Torrance said, “we’d burn all that stuff as rubbish, wouldn’t we, Whistler?” “And _that_,” agreed his chum, unpuckering his lips, “is why firewood at home is worth twenty dollars a cord.” “Wot’s that?” gasped Willum Johnson. “Four pun a cord? My heye! hit’s no wonder there’s so many millionaires in Hamerica. Ye _’ave_ to be a millionaire to live there--eh, wot?” “Right you are, man,” said Al. “Hi! where’s the next bunch of paper, Whistler?” It seemed that the trail of paper fragments stopped abruptly. The party scattered through the wood, searching thoroughly for yards on either side of the path. “Perhaps he ran out of paper,” suggested Frenchy. Whistler, who was ahead, suddenly came to the edge of a hollow--a steep fall of some ten or a dozen feet. He parted the bushes and peered down into this hole. Then he uttered a startled cry that brought the others to the spot on the run. CHAPTER V--THE TRICKSTER “Easy, boy!” Al Torrance advised, hearing Whistler’s cry of surprise. “Want to give us away to that Heinie if he is in hearing?” But Whistler Morgan, after his startled exclamation, burst through the bushes and hurried down the bank of the hollow. A figure lay at the bottom--a figure dressed in a blue smock, loose trousers, heavy shoes and a cap. The cap was pulled down over the person’s face, and he was rolled sideways so that Whistler could not distinguish a feature. There was, however, something besides these points that had caused Whistler’s ejaculation and excitement. “Cracky!” gasped Al, remembering the description his chum had so recently given of the disguise the German spy had donned. “Is that the fellow? And who triced him up that way? Looks like somebody has been ahead of us.” The other two Navy Boys and Willum Johnson joined Al Torrance at the top of the bank. They, too, saw the huddled figure below over which Whistler was standing.