When we came to the place where we had built the imaginary fire with which to cook Dragonfly, Little Jim got the cutest grin on his face and said, “Here’s where I come in.... Somebody shoot me quick, so I can turn into a goat.” “BANG!” I said to him, pointing my finger at him. “Now you’re _dead_.” Little Jim plopped himself down on the ground, then jumped up and said, “Now I’m a goat.” He began to sniff at my hand like a good goat. He surely was a swell guy and had a good imagination, I thought--only for some reason our game had turned from innocent fun to a very serious and maybe a dangerous game. We followed our broken twig trail to where it branched off in two directions, one of the trails going toward the cabin where we’d seen John Till twice, and the other one going toward where the ransom money was buried, we hoped. “Which way first?” my Man Friday asked me, then got a screwed up expression on his face, sniffed, and said, “Hey! there’s that deadish smell again!” Sure enough it was. I turned my nose in different directions to see which way it was coming from, but couldn’t tell for sure. “Come on!” my acrobatic goat said, “Let’s get going!” and he and my fat goat started off on the trail we hadn’t followed yet. There wasn’t any use for me to get peeved that they didn’t wait for my orders before going ahead, so I said, “Sure, that’s what _I_ say,” and away we all went, Little Jim carrying his stick, with a grin and also a very serious expression on his smallish face. He held his stick like he was ready to sock anything that might need socking and swished on up ahead of me so the three goats could be together. It was fun following the trail, and yet as we moved along from one broken twig to another and to another, I was remembering what a dangerous surprise we had found yesterday when we had come to the end of that other trail. It certainly wasn’t a straight trail, but kept zig-zagging in different directions, but it seemed from the direction of the sun that it was working around toward the lake again. Pretty soon we came to a hill and looked down and sure enough there was the lake ahead of us, and away down at the foot of the hill we could see through the heavyish undergrowth there was a building of some kind. The broken wild plum twig where we were standing pointed right straight toward the oldish building. We stopped, surprised. I had expected to find a little mound of some kind, or some markings on a tree or something, but certainly not an oldish building. In a jiffy we had out the invisible-ink map and were studying it. There wasn’t anything on it that looked like a house.... “It’s an old icehouse,” Poetry said, and it was--a dilapidated oldish unpainted log icehouse--an icehouse being a building of some kind that people up in the lake country build to store ice in it in the winter-time, so that in the hot summer they can have plenty of ice for their iceboxes.