On the other hand, they preferred not to leave their car at Sandyfield where it might be a continual reminder to the few inhabitants of their presence in the neighborhood. They wished not to be disturbed. For the same reason, I understood, they did not leave it at the Scout Headquarters up at the lakes, where it might advertise their presence to curious and enterprising Boy Scouts. For the camping season was then in full swing. What they did was to drive in from Sloatsburg, and at a point short of Lily Pond (which is west of the hamlet) they succeeded in finding an old, overgrown wagon trail which wound through the woods and was sometimes completely obscured by brush. I suppose it might once have been used for ox teams. It petered out completely in the hills north of Breakneck Pond. Here Nature set her wild face to the lusty little Ford and said, “You shall not pass.” So they left the Ford there, sheltered by an old canvas tent thrown over it, and I will here record that when the big adventure was over, the shabby and redoubtable little car started off as if nothing had happened, backed around into a swamp, delivered a masterly assault upon an oak tree, broke her bumper and one fender and one light, then proceeded triumphantly back along a trail which I was never able to see with my eyes. Two cylinders were missing--probably stolen, as Brent remarked. From this strategic base of supplies Tom and Brent, with all the provisions they could carry, made their way south to the Gulch. I did not see my young friends again until fall, when the whole affair was over. Several post cards reached me, mailed I suppose at Scout Headquarters, and one letter from Brent which I here copy: _Dear Friend_: We are located very comfortably in Rattlesnake Gulch and as yet nothing has happened except I lost my spectacle case down the well. We expect to investigate the well to-morrow and then I hope to recover it. We are boarding with a very respectable family of rattlesnakes, mother and father and two sons, and I like them because they let us alone. Last night we heard a noise after turning in; it sounded like someone approaching stealthily. But on sneaking out of the cabin I found it was only an empty shredded wheat box which I had carelessly left about after supper; it was blowing hither and yon in the breeze and disturbing some dried leaves. I pursued and captured it. This cabin is a very primitive little bunk; there are two rooms but no improvements except an old cook stove, which I suppose you saw. We remind ourselves of Daniel Boone and William S. Hart. The place is very wild, much more thickly grown than when you were here. Tom will not have a light burning at night, for he wishes to take our friend from the West unawares; I don’t know why. So I cannot work on my cross-word puzzles after sundown.