"And was going to send a letter to the kid's father," concluded Tom. "And here's his footprint, too. I'd like to take his shoe off and fit it into this footprint," Tom said. "What for?" Roy asked. "Just to make sure." But Tom soon dismissed that thought and the others did not relish it. Moreover, Tom knew that the law prohibited him from doing such a thing. With the mystery, as it seemed, cleared up, there remained nothing to do but explore the immediate vicinity for the sake of scout thoroughness. Their search revealed other loose boards, a few cooking utensils and finally the utter wreck of what must have been a very primitive and tiny shack. This was perhaps a couple of hundred feet from the body and below the highest point of the mountain. It was conceivable that a fire here might have shown in a faint glare down at camp. The blaze could not have been seen. Amid the ruin of the shack were a few rough cooking utensils. The soaking land and the darkness effectually concealed the charred remnants of any fire. "Well, he'll never shoot any buffaloes and wild Indians," said Roy. Tom replaced the cards and letter, or rather put them in the dead man's pocket for fear the wind might blow them away, though being under the lee of the trunk they had been somewhat protected. Then the party retraced their path down the mountain and, circling its lower reaches, found themselves at last upon the lake shore. Thus ended the work of that fretful night, a night ever memorable at Temple Camp, a night of death and devastation. The mighty wind which smote the forest and drove the ruinous waters before it, died in the moment of its triumph. The sodden, sullen heaven which had cast its gloom and poured its unceasing rain, rain, rain, upon the camp for two full weeks, cleared and the edges of the departing clouds were bathed in the silver moonlight. And the next morning the bright, merry sun arose and smiled down upon Temple Camp and particularly on Goliath who sat swinging his legs from the springboard. CHAPTER XVI THE WANDERING MINSTREL He was defying, single handed, half a dozen or more scouts who were flopping about in rowboats under and about the springboard. They had just rowed across after an inspection of the washed-out cove, and were resting on their oars, jollying the little fellow whose legs dangled above them. "Where did that big feller go?" he asked. "To the village." "He found a dead man last night, didn't he?" "That's what he did." "I know his name, it's Slade." "Right the first time. You're a smart fellow." "I like that big feller. He says Gilbert Tyson is all right; I asked him. I bet Gilbert Tyson can beat any of you fellers. He's in my troop, he is. I bet you were never in a hospital." "I bet you were never in prison," a scout ventured. "I bet you never got hanged," Goliath piped up. "I bet I did," another scout said. "When?" "To-morrow afternoon." "To-morrow afternoon isn't here yet," Goliath said, triumphantly.