“He’s an old friend of the chief,” the operator answered, “and the chief comes out here to shoot birds with him every year. That’s what he is doing here now, and you fellows are all on a wild-goose chase. I’ve had telegrams from about a dozen reporters to keep open for late specials, but you won’t have any specials to send. He’s not looking for anybody’s body out here, he’s shooting birds. There’s one of his guides sitting on the table; the man in the big hat. You can ask him.” Dick immediately began to question the guide, and it did not take him long to find that the operator was telling the truth. There was no news to be had, for the chief was only taking a little holiday instead of hunting grave-robbers. He crossed over to the hotel and talked with the landlord, and there the bird-shooting story was confirmed. It was a tame ending to a long hunt, but there was no help for it. Dick returned to the Telegraph office and he was hardly inside when one of the loungers exclaimed:-- “There’s a locomotive coming up the road!” Sure enough, there was the headlight staring them in the face. The occupants of the office ran out to the platform just in time to see the engine stop. The young man who sprang from the engine before it came to a full stop was the Philadelphia correspondent of The New York Herald. He had heard by telegraph of the chief’s visit to Shamong, and as there was no train he had chartered the locomotive to carry him to the spot. While he stood talking to the operator, learning just what Dick had learned, three carriages drove up, and several reporters whom Dick knew ascended the station steps. There were five of them, four from the principal morning newspapers of New York, and one from The Philadelphia Age. These men had all been sent out in trains that carried them to Manchester, a little town on another railroad about ten miles away, and there they had taken carriages and started posthaste for Shamong, arriving all together. It was amusing to Dick to see this congregation of reporters, numbering seven now, and no news for them to gather. He was in position to stand by and see the others work, for he had been over the ground thoroughly. But the businesslike way in which some of them went to work made him a little uneasy. They seemed to know just the people to inquire for; and perhaps their information might be better than his, after all. It was a place for him to keep his eyes and ears open, at any rate. “Where can I find Mr. Peter Smith?” was one of the first questions asked by the Herald correspondent. “I want to see Dave Hardy,” one of the others said to the operator; “where does he live?”