“Whew! Can’t blame him for that,” said Dig. “They’re an unhealthy looking crowd. Old Scarface whitewashes fences for a nickel an hour and they live in a dirty hole of a cabin down in Hardpan.” “John always looked neat and clean when he came to school.” “But see how he looked up there in the woods—like a reg’lar savage!” sniffed Dig. “Not half dressed—and living in that old shack. I wonder what he’s doing now that his outfit is burned.” “I believe that stranger burned it—the one we saw talking with him when we rode by,” declared Chet earnestly. “And I never saw that man before— Oh, Dig!” and he suddenly made an excited grab for his chum’s arm. “Well, goodness! Don’t scare a fellow to death. What’s got you now?” demanded Digby Fordham. “That fellow is the one we saw with the lame Indian.” “What fellow?” “The man who butted in just now when I shot the hawk.” “Whew! you don’t mean it?” said Dig. “Yes, I do. I remember him now. I remember his hat. Now, who can he be?” “Give it up! Hello! there’s father calling for us. Oh, Chet! I hope they let us go to Grub Stake,” said Dig, longingly. Serious as was the errand to Grub Stake, Mr. Havens and Mr. Fordham were inclined to trust their sons more than ever before, and that because of one uncontrovertible fact. When nobody else had thought of any way to rescue the entombed miners from the Silent Sue, Chet and Dig had remembered about the old Crayton shaft and the possibility of getting into the closed mine through its old tunnel. “It showed a surprising amount of thought and initiative for boys of their age,” Mr. Havens said. “I don’t know whether it was my boy or yours who took the lead, Fordham. At any rate, the two in conjunction hunted us out.” “Something is due the boys,” admitted Mr. Fordham, “and the trip will be a great lark for them.” “It’s more than a lark. I shall impress that on Chet’s mind,” said his partner, shaking his head. “Oh! your boy’s got a head on him,” agreed Mr. Fordham. “I hope so,” concluded Mr. Havens, and it was then the chums were recalled to receive permission and instructions for the journey over the trail to Grub Stake. Neither Chet nor Digby gave vent to any exuberance of joy at the prospect—not then, at least. They listened earnestly to what they were told, and then at once set about the preparations they had to make, for they were to start the very next morning. Dig, who never went anywhere on foot if he could help it, brought his black horse, Poke, and all his outfit over to the Havens corral that evening. The boys proposed to camp in the open, there being no ranches at that date along the Grub Stake trail. So they were obliged to pack a good deal of camp equipment. “We’d better hire one of Mexican Joe’s burros,” said Dig, “and then we can take our piano and your mother’s sewing machine and washtubs.” “Don’t begin to kick,” Chet said calmly. “You’ll be glad to have all this stuff before we’re half-way to Grub Stake.”