It was a silly dream, and right that second I felt something touching me in the ribs. I forced my stubborn eyes open a little but couldn’t see anything on account of it was very dark in our tent, but I did see a shadow of someone leaning over me, and after such a crazy dream I was scared of who it might be. Then I heard Poetry’s husky whisper right close to my face saying, “Hey, Bill!” “What?” I whispered up at him. My mind was all tangled up with mixed-up ideas. Poetry’s whisper back in my car was, “Let’s take a look at the invisible-ink map. I just dreamed there was another line running off in a different direction. Let’s hold a hot flashlight down real close to it and see if there is.” I didn’t want to wake up--or rather, I did want to go back to sleep again, but Poetry kept on whispering excitedly about his dream, so I reached over to my shirt which I had hung on my camp chair close by, and ran my hand into the pocket where I had had the map. Say, I hadn’t any sooner got my hand inside than a very scared feeling woke me up quicker’n anything, on account of the map wasn’t in the pocket. “Hey!” I whispered to Poetry, “it’s not in my pocket!” 8 “Sure it is,” Poetry said. “It’s got to be!” “But it’s not!” I said, more wide awake than I usually am when I am wide awake. I must have made a lot of excited noise ’cause right away Dragonfly stopped snoring, sneezed a couple of times, and wanted to know what was going on, and why. “Nothing,” my fat goat said to him. “We’re just looking for something.” “Well, for--! Look with your _eyes_ instead of your _voices_,” Dragonfly said, “I’m allergic to--_kerchew!_--to--_kerchew!_--to NOISE!” “It’s your own snoring that woke you up,” Poetry said to my Man Friday. “Now go back to sleep.” I certainly felt queer. “Somebody’s _stolen_ it,” I said to Poetry. I was running my hands frantically through all the pockets of my trousers and my shirt and all the other clothes I’d had on during the day. We flashed the flashlight all around the tent and into every corner, where the envelope might have fallen out of one of my pockets. “We’ve _got_ to find it,” Poetry said. “Where do you suppose you lost it?” “_Lost_ it? Somebody’s sneaked in here and stolen it.” “Hey!” Poetry said, like he had thought of a bright idea. “When did you remember looking at it last?” My thoughts galloped back over the evening, and the afternoon, and I couldn’t remember. “What pocket did you have it in last?” Poetry asked, and I thought a jiffy, and said, “Why, my shirt pocket where I keep my New Testament. I put it there when I--” And then I stopped talking, gasped out loud. I’d thought of something. “Maybe we--maybe it dropped out of my pocket back there in the cabin when we were climbing out of the window.”