"We found his footprint close enough near here," argued Dave. "Yes, and I feel sure enough that Mr. Dodge is there. But why don't we hear something from him? The whole business is so uncanny that it gives one that creepy feeling." For a full quarter of an hour the two chums remained hidden, barely stirring. From the shanty, at first, came crooning tones, as though the man in brogans were humming over old songs to himself. Occasionally there was a snore; evidently Bill was drowsing the day away. "Now, I'm going down there," whispered Dick. "Look out the big fellow doesn't catch you," warned Darrin. "I've an idea he'd beat you to a pulp if he caught you." "I'm not as big as he is," admitted Dick, grinning, "but I think I might prove as fast as he on my feet." As Prescott started to steal down into the hollow Dave reached about him, gathering all the fair-sized stones within reach. "If Dick has to come from there on the rim," soliloquized Darrin, "a few stones hurled at the face of that ugly-looking customer might hold him back for a while. And I used to be called a pretty fair pitcher!" Prescott, in the meantime, was stealing around the shanty, applying his eyes to some tiny cracks. At last he turned, making straight and cautiously up the slope. As he came near, Dick sent Dave a signal that made that latter youth throb with expectancy. "Yes! We've found Theodore Dodge!" whispered young Prescott eagerly. "He's in there, lying on the floor, bound and gagged." "Whew! And what is Mr. Brogans doing?" "Sitting on the floors smoking and playing solitaire with a dirty pack of cards. The other rascal, Bill, is sleeping at a great rate." "What are we going to do now?" "Dave, are you willing to stay here, hiding and keeping watch on the place?" "Surely," nodded Darrin, with great promptness. "If the wretches should try to take Mr. Dodge away from here-----" "I'll follow 'em, of course." "And leave a paper trail," nodded Dick. "Here is all the paper I have in my pockets," he added. "I have some, too," muttered Dave. "I'll be back as speedily as I can get help." "You ought not to be gone more than an hour." "Not as long as that, I hope. Goodbye, Dave, and look out for yourself." After going the first hundred yards Dick Prescott let himself out into a loping run, very much like that used by the "soreheads" in getting back to town. With a trained runner the cross-country style of running is suited for getting over long distances at fair speed. Twenty minutes later young Prescott reached a farm house in which there was a telephone. He asked permission to use the instrument. "Go right in the parlor, and help yourself," replied the farmer's wife. As Dick rang on, and stood waiting, transmitter at his ear, he first thought of calling for the police station. "No, I won't, either," he muttered. "This belongs to my paper. Let them tip off the police. Hello! Give me 'The Blade' office, Gridley, please."