“Some jewelry, ney?” said Brent, holding the gorgeous pin at length and contemplating it critically. “Well, this is our first treasure--gold and diamonds. We’ve done pretty well so far, for beginners. We’re pretty good bandits anyway. When they see us they throw down their jewels. Do you hear a sound, or is it the wind? Sounds to me like---- _What the dickens!_ Listen--shh!” “I guess it’s nothing,” Tom said wearily. “Do you suppose we’d be able to get a little real rest if we moved to the Bronx?” Brent asked. “There’s too much doing up here. My idea of---- _Listen!_ No, honest, _listen_.” As he spoke there was a sound of rustling leaves or bushes disturbed. Tom quickly opened the door and immediately there was the sound of running. “You don’t suppose that kid is back?” Brent said. “I’ll take him home by the collar if he is,” said Tom. They went out and walked around, examining the neighboring brush. The night was too dark for them to see anything. Besides, as the wind blew in gusts, they thought it likely that these impetuous assaults against the dense growth were the only sounds they had heard. They were too dog-tired to extend their investigation, so they turned in for the night. This was the beginning of their period of watchful waiting. If it had not been for the pleasure of camping in that romantic fastness, they might have abandoned their enterprise. But the camping life, the atmosphere of the primitive little cabin, and the charm of the wild surroundings carried them along. In the days immediately following, Tom rummaged in the overgrown hollow from which the place derived its name, pulling aside great masses of brush and searching the open ground underneath. I suppose there wasn’t one chance in a hundred of his finding anything there. He finally acknowledged that the treasure-seeking phase of their enterprise was a failure. But there did seem at least a fair chance that the old fellow out west would turn out to be Mink Havers and would seek his old familiar home. There was adventure in the mere expectancy of this, for every rustle of a tree at night aroused the keenest apprehensions. It was during this period that Brent (who declined resolutely to prosecute an aggressive search) hiked about the neighborhood and one day ambled into Scout Headquarters up at Kanawauke Lakes. Here he hunted up Spiffy and returned him his scarf-pin. I want you to read the letter he sent me, not only because it is so characteristic, but because it throws a light on certain interesting events which were shortly to occur. My facts I received from Tom, my local color from Brent. Dear Friend: