Tom and Winton had cut through the woods, direct from the cove where they had been assisting in throwing together the makeshift dam. Fortunately the searchlight had made their journey easy. The figure which now approached along the road turned out to be Ebon Berry, owner of the wrecked garage, who had ventured forth from his home as soon as the storm had abated. "Well, 'tain't no use cryin' over spilled milk, as the feller says," he observed as he contemplated the ruin all about him. "You're about cleaned out, Mr. Berry," said Winton. "Whose car is this? I never saw it before." "That? Well, now, that belongs to a feller that left it here, oh, I dunno, mebbe close onto a week ago. I ain't seed him since. Said he'd be back for it nex' day. I ain't seed nothin' of 'im. I guess that's what you'd call a racer, now, hain't it?" "What are you going to do about it?" Tom asked. "It was damaged when it came here, wasn't it?" "Yes, it were. Well, now, I don't jes' know _what_ I'd auter do. Jes' nothin', I guess." "'Tisn't going to do it any good buried here in the mud," Tom said. "Well, 'tain't my loss, ony six dollars storage." "Let's give it the once over," Tom said, in a way of half interest. The efforts of the night had been so strenuous that his casual interest in the car was something in the form of relaxation. It interested him as whittling a stick might have interested him. "Take a squint into that pocket there, Roy." There was nothing but a piece of cotton waste in the flap pocket of the door nearest Roy, but Gilbert Tyson's ransacking of the other one revealed some miscellaneous paraphernalia; there was a pair of motorist's gloves, a road map, a newspaper, and two letters. "Here, I'll give you the light," said Roy, as Tyson handed these things to Tom. "You keep the light on the road," said Tom. "Let's have your flashlight." "Now we're going to find out where the buried treasure lays hid--I mean hidden," said Roy. "We're going to unravel the mystery, as Pee-wee would say. 'Twas on a dark and stormy night----" "Let's have your flashlight," said Tom, dryly. CHAPTER XIII THE UNKNOWN TRAIL Gilbert Tyson and Roy sat in the car. Tyson had removed one curtain and Tom, standing close by, examined the papers in the glare of the flashlight which Tyson held. Bert Winton and Mr. Berry peered curiously over Tom's shoulder. The map was of the usual folding sort, and on a rather large scale, showing the country for about forty or fifty miles roundabout. "There's my little old home town," said Tyson, putting his finger on Hillsburgh, "home, sweet home." "And here's little old Black Lake--before the flood," said Roy. "There's the camp, right there," he added, indicating the spot to Tyson; "there's where we eat, right there." "And here's a trail up the mountain," said Tom. "See that lead pencil mark? You go up the back way. See?"