"Oh! we can get all we want," he was told; "it's only a question of finding the bait. They're just asking to be taken on. It's hit and come with them as soon as you drop your line in. The bait hardly sinks a foot before it's taken. I never saw anything like it in all my life. And fight, say, they bent my rod double lots of times. I lost more'n I saved." "But about the canoe," Phil went on to say, "the chances are it must belong to whoever was in our cabin before we came." "That stands to reason, seems to me," Ethan agreed. "Well, he had the use of your shack, goodness knows how long, Phil," said Lub, with an imitation of his father's solemn manner when delivering an opinion from the bench; "and it's only fair you have the use of his boat. Tit for tat, you know. One balances the other. Besides, we are not supposed to know whose boat it is." "There's something else I wanted to tell you about," remarked X-Ray. He was thrusting a hand inside his coat as he spoke; and when it came out again the others saw that it held something like a buff colored envelope, torn open. "Now, I found this same when I was nosing around," he explained. "It was caught tight away under this seat in the bow, and must have been blown there by the wind." "Looks like one of those telegraph envelopes," remarked Lub. "Which is exactly what it is," said X-Ray Tyson, as he offered the object in question to Phil. "There's an enclosure inside; read it, and see what you can make of the same. It got me balled up a whole lot, I'm telling you." Phil quickly had the enclosure out. It was a printed form, and had a message written upon it. "John Newton: Winchester, N. Y. (hold until called for). "Stay where you are. Search grows warmer daily. Too bad for both you can't compromise. "RUTGERS." Phil read it all out slowly, and Lub listened very seriously. "First," Phil went on to say, "the man's name, or the one he goes by right now, is John Newton. It may be assumed, and I 'reckon the chances are all that way. He seems to be in hiding, just as we thought. This is a friend who's warning him not to think of leaving his nest yet awhile. The question is, what terrible thing has he done, and who's hunting for him?" "If you asked me," ventured Lub, composedly, "I'd say it was all as plain as print. This man must be a counterfeit money-maker. The Secret Service people are looking for him everywhere, because, like as not he's big game. And you can see how this Rutgers, who is of course a chap of the same kind, is telling him how hot the hunt is getting to be." "It does look a little that way," admitted Phil; "there's only one thing that bothers me." "Go on and explain what you mean," urged Ethan. "The last part of the message doesn't seem to go with that sort of an explanation," said Phil. "As how? Read it again, and let us see, Phil," Lub requested.