“He’s come a long distance out of his way for a little thing like that,” commented Ned. “I’m inclined to think he came here to meet some one. After Bob spoke I saw the fellow look at his watch as though impatient because of an appointment not kept.” “Well, where’s he going now?” asked Bob, repeating his question. “I guess it’s up to us to find out,” replied Jerry. “Maybe he’s trying to lead us into an ambush,” suggested Bob. “Cut out the dime-novel stuff,” advised Jerry, with a low laugh. “I’ve got a better explanation than that, and the real one.” “What is it?” asked Ned. “It’s our black faces,” returned the tall chum. “If that crooked-nosed man--Jim Waydell the farmer called him, though it may not be his right name--if he saw us at all, which he probably did, he takes us for negroes. That’s why he isn’t worried. He thinks we’re camp roustabouts, and that we don’t know anything about him.” “I believe you’re right!” exclaimed Ned, after a moment’s thought. “We do look like a trio of colored chaps, and that’s why he isn’t getting worried and taking it on the run. Say, it’s a lucky thing we are this way.” “Maybe,” assented Jerry. “Now mind your talk. Do the negro dialect as well as you can, fellows, and we may find out something about this mysterious Crooked Nose. If we can bring about his arrest for robbing the Frenchman, or for setting the fire, which Mr. Cardon seemed to think he did, it will be a good thing for us and Cresville. So pretend we are colored men with a few hours off.” The boys walked as near as they thought safe to the solitary suspect, who was trudging down the road alone. When they spoke aloud the motor boys simulated the broad negro tones, talking and laughing as they had often heard the camp teamsters and servants do, for the place was overrun with good-natured, if rather shiftless, colored men. As for “Mr. Crooked Nose,” as the boys sometimes called him, he seemed to pay little attention to those who were following him. Either he took them for genuine colored men, and, as such, persons who could have no interest in his movements, or he was indifferent to the fact that they might be some of the minstrel players. What the man’s object was in coming to camp, when the farm on which he was supposed to work was several miles away, could only be guessed at. But the boys hoped to find it out. They were approaching the camp confines, and were debating whether they could risk going beyond them, when the crooked-nosed man turned into a field, and made his way toward a deserted barn. This was one that had been on a farm when the land had been taken by the government for Camp Dixton. “Maybe he’s going to sleep there,” suggested Bob. “Or perhaps he is going to meet some one there.”