“Yes. He has gone down in a boat.” Beveridge turned to the farmer. “Does the creek go on far in this direction?” “No, it turns off south pretty soon.” “Would it take him anywhere especial?” “No--just into the woods.” “No houses south of here?” “Not for a long way.” “And it's sluggish like this all along, isn't it? Full of snags and shallows?” “Oh, yes, he couldn't go very fast.” “All right. Come on, boys.” On they went, walking over the spongy ground below the bank or splashing softly through the water. They did not speak, but followed their leader eagerly through the moving shadows. The trees arched over their heads, the water slipped moodily onward, blacker than the shadows. Now and then they stumbled over projecting roots, or stepped down knee-deep in some muddy hole; all the while their eyes strove to pierce the dark, searching for a boat in the gloom of the opposite bank, or for a man among the bushes above, even glancing overhead into the trees, where a desperate man might have hidden. At length they reached an opening in the trees of the right bank, and Beveridge, stepping up, found that the road here paralleled the creek. “Which way now?” asked Dick. “No sign of a boat, is there?” “No.” “Then keep on down-stream.” They divided now in order to watch both banks, for the creek had widened a little and the shadows were dense. It was Smiley and Harper who waded across, stepping down waist-deep in the water and mud. Not a word was spoken. The only sound was the low splash-splash of four pairs of feet, with now and then the noise of heavy breathing or a muttered exclamation as one or another stumbled into a hole. “Hello--ouch!” The voice was Pink Harper's. At this point the trees had shut in overhead, and the dark was impenetrable. Beveridge and Van Deelen could see nothing across the creek, not even the blot of denser black which told Smiley, only a few feet behind, where his companion had stopped. “What is it?” came in a low voice from Beveridge. “Hit my shin. Hold on--feels like a boat. Guess you'd better come across.” Without a moment's hesitation the special agent turned to the left and plunged into the stream. At this point it was deeper, and he found himself submerged to the armpits. To save time he drew up his feet and swam across until his knees struck bottom. And then the three of them,--Van Deelen waited on the farther bank,--now dimly visible to each other, stood side by side feeling of the boat. “You 'll have to come over here,” said Beveridge to the farmer, “and tell us if it's your boat.” Van Deelen had no mind to swim. “Can't you strike a match?” he asked. “Strike your aunt!” growled Beveridge, wringing his wet clothes. “Well, say, that ain't necessary anyhow. My boat's the only one on the creek.” “Why didn't you say that before I swam over?” “Well, I--” “You want to watch out or you 'll be coming down with brain fever one of these days. Come, boys, we 'll go back.”