“Yes, the day before we left the Hall. He met me in town and borrowed a quarter from me. Said he wanted to send a telegram to friends who would give him work. Then he and I got talking, and I happened to mention that we fellows were going camping.” “You did!” exclaimed Tom. “This Whalen was quite interested,” resumed George. “He asked me a lot of questions about the location of the camps, and what route we were going to take.” “Did you tell him?” demanded Tom. “Why, yes, I told him some things. Any harm?” “No, I don’t know that there was,” spoke Tom more slowly and thoughtfully. “But did Whalen say why he wanted to know all that?” “No, not definitely. He did mention, though, that he might look for a job somewhere up North, and I suppose that was why he asked so many questions.” “Maybe,” said Tom, in a low voice. Then he did some hard thinking. In due time Hemlock Junction was reached. This was the end of the train journey, and the boys piled out with their baggage, their guns and cameras. It was cold and snowing. “I guess that’s our man over there,” remarked Tom, indicating a person in a big overcoat with a fur cap and a red scarf around his neck. “Does he look as though his name was Sam Wilson?” asked our hero of his chums. “Why Sam Wilson?” asked Jack. “Because that’s the name of the man who was to meet us and drive us over to camp,” Tom said. The man, with a smile illuminating his red face, approached. “Looks to be plenty of room in the pung,” remarked Tom. “What’s a pung?” asked George. “That big sled, sort of two bobs made into one, with only a single set of runners,” explained Tom, indicating the sled to which were hitched four horses, whose every movement jingled a chime of musical bells. “Be you the Fairfield crowd?” asked the man. “That’s us,” Tom said. “Are you Sam Wilson?” “Yes.” “Then, we are discovered, as the Indians said to Columbus,” Jack murmured, in a low voice. “Pile in,” invited Sam Wilson, indicating the pung. “I’ll get your traps. Ain’t this fine weather, though?” “It’s a bit cold,” Bert remarked. “That’s what a party said that I drove over to your camp the other day,” spoke Sam. “He was from down Jersey way, too. You fellers must be sort of cold-blooded down thar! This chap complained of the cold. But pshaw! This is mild to what we have sometimes. Yes, this feller I drove over kept rubbin’ his ears all the while. One ear was terrible red, and it wasn’t all from the cold either. It had some sort of a scar on it, like it had been chawed by some wild critter. It sure was a funny ear!” Tom looked at his chums with startled gaze. This was disquieting news indeed. CHAPTER VII AT CAMP Seemingly by common consent on the part of Tom’s chums, it was left for him to further question Sam Wilson and learn more about the man the caretaker had driven over to the hunting camp. And Tom was not slow to follow up the matter. He had his own suspicions, but he wanted to verify them.