“I believe Henry is right,” said Tom. “And it isn’t the most pleasant prospect to think that our camp may be overhauled at any time, whenever we happen to be away, and perhaps disappear altogether some dark night, if we happen to be caught out on the bay or down the island. But what to do I don’t see, for the life of me,—except to keep as quiet as possible about it.” “I may not be right,” suggested Henry Burns, “but my advice would be to do just the opposite,—that is, when you once feel certain that Harvey is hunting for you. “Tell Harvey,” continued Henry, “that you blew up his camp, and how you did it, and why. Tell him what you saw in that cave. Ask him point-blank if he would want the villagers to know what you saw in there. Strike a bargain with him to call it even. He will be glad to do it; whereas, if he finds you and Bob out, without your knowing what he is up to, he will watch night and day for a chance to harm you.” “The fact is,” added Henry Burns, as he arose to go, “what with Jack Harvey and Colonel Witham on the war-path after you, you are likely to have quite a lively summer before you get through. So keep your eyes open and look out. And remember, when in trouble, always apply to H. A. Burns, care Colonel Witham—always ready to serve you.” And Henry Burns walked away, whistling. Tom and Bob went about their breakfast preparations, looking rather serious for a time; but a hearty meal made them look at the matter somewhat less seriously. “Henry Burns is quite apt to be right about things, so the Warrens say,” commented Tom, after awhile, as they were finishing their meal. “But I guess he likes to talk some, too, just to make an impression. I don’t see how Harvey can find out who blew up his cave in a hundred years, if we only keep quiet and don’t give it away ourselves.” “I’m not so sure,” answered Bob. “Those things do get out.” Jack Harvey, in the meantime, having completed a careful survey of the shore, and either finding or not finding what he sought for, went back to his camp and crew. Toward noon, however, he left his camp, and a little later Tom saw him coming up along the shore. When he came to where the canoe lay on the beach, Harvey paused and examined it closely. Then, as though to test its weight, he lifted it up on his broad shoulders, and then set it down on the beach again, this time bottom up. Tom and Bob started down to the shore at this, but, before either they or Harvey had spoken, they had seen plainly that which, perhaps, Harvey had looked for, a long broad scratch upon the bottom of the canoe, near the middle, where the fresh paint had been scraped off. “Hulloa, there,” said Harvey, as they approached. “That’s a fine canoe you’ve got there. Guess I’ll have to get the governor to buy me one. I saw your tent yesterday, but didn’t have a chance to come around. You fellows got ahead of me, by coming over last night—with the crowd.”