“Yes, sir, they are,” nodded Dugan. “What’s that nearest one, that having a sign on top?” “That’s not a sawmill. The man who runs that place works over old rubber and culls out the best of it. He makes it into rubber tubes and pipes.” “What’s that name on the sign?” “Ardley,” said Dugan unsuspiciously. “His name is Ben Ardley.” “You’re acquainted with him, I suppose?” “Well, not overmuch,” Dugan vouchsafed, with somewhat sharper scrutiny. “He ain’t the kind I fancy.” “No?” Dugan did not respond to the insinuating query. He seemed to go into his shell, as it were, and he didn’t speak again until Nick, after vainly waiting for him to do so, decided that he would not become too inquisitive. Instead, he remarked carelessly, as if the other topic had passed out of his mind: “I suppose I must tramp to the town in order to get across the river.” “No, you needn’t do that,” said Dugan. “There’s a ferry half a mile above here. You’ll see the sign in front of a small wooden house. The man who lives there will take you across. He keeps a boat for that purpose.” “What’s his name?” questioned Nick. “Jones. He’s all right. There’s a bridge, too, below here a couple of miles.” “A bridge, eh?” thought Nick. “Does the other fork of the road lead to it?” “Aye, it does,” nodded Dugan. “I remember passing it,” said Nick, rising to go. “Well, I’ll be plugging along. It’ll be hot walking later in the day.” “So ’twill, sir. Drop in again when you plug this way.” “I will, Mr. Dugan,” Nick assured him. He now detected a tinge of sarcasm in the man’s voice, nevertheless, but he departed without betraying it. “I’ll be likely to drop in again sooner than you imagine, or will care to see me,” thought Nick, a bit grimly. “I reckon I have brought up quite close to my quarry. Those two rats ducked out of the barroom quite suddenly, I remember, and Dugan closed his trap in a rather abrupt and significant way. I’ll skin over the river and size up Mr. Ben Ardley. That may prove more profitable than hunting farther for Beardly.” Nick trudged on up the road, which followed the course of the river, and he presently arrived at the home of the ferryman, which was among the first of scattered dwellings which now appeared on that side of the stream. Jones was up and out for business, it then being after seven o’clock, and Nick accompanied him down to the river bank, where they boarded a broad, flat-bottomed boat, which Jones operated with no other power than his own gaunt figure and wiry arms applied to a pair of oars. “I stopped at Dugan’s place back yonder for a drink,” Nick remarked, when they were under way. “He seems to be a decent chap.” Jones was not communicative. No man can say less than a rustic, when so inclined. “Decent enough,” he allowed, in nasal tones. “He keeps boarders, doesn’t he?” Nick inquired. “Reckon not.” “But I saw two men there, named Morley and Conroy.” “Never heard of them.” “That’s so?” “Yep.”