“Yes, boss, in a field where I was roasting some ears of corn a farmer said I could have. They was almost roasted when down out of the air swooped this kite. First I thought some boys must ’a’ been playing around there and it got away from them. But I didn’t see no boys. Then I picked up the kite and this message was on it.” “You mean this message was tied to the tail or to the string of the kite itself?” “No, it wasn’t tied on. It was part of the kite—part of the paper the kite was made of. There wasn’t no string to speak of. Looked to me like the kite broke away. This message was writ right on the paper of the kite. It was partly tore off so I finished ripping it loose, and put it in my pocket.” “Where’s the remainder of the kite?” asked Tom. He was going to prove this strange tale to the very bottom. “Here ’tis.” The shuffling old tramp drew from a pocket of his ragged coat a tangled mass of broken sticks, brown paper and string. Tom took the tattered stuff and smoothed it out. Slowly he assembled it into a small kite of the kind that needs no tail to be sent up, a curve of the cross stick and the consequent bellying of the loose paper serving to hold the wind against the kite’s surface. From the center of the kite a piece of the paper had been torn. This piece was represented by the fragment containing the message appealing for help. Tom fitted it in and proved that this part of the old tramp’s tale was true. “It looks as if there might be something in it, Tom,” said Mr. Damon. “Yes. But whether this will help us find Ned or not is another question. You say this kite was blown to where you were in the field?” Tom asked the old fellow. “Yes, boss. It come down right near my fire.” “From which direction?” The tramp considered for a moment and answered. “Right from the south.” Tom knew that the prevailing winds at this time of year in the vicinity of Shopton, where he lived, were from the south. So far the tramp had not tripped himself up. “What do you make of it, Tom?” asked the eccentric man as he began an examination of the remains of the kite. “I don’t know what to think,” was the reply. “This is most certainly from Ned, and he seems to be a prisoner on the ‘Smith place,’ wherever that is.” “Maybe I can help you out there,” broke in the tramp. “I asked some questions before I started off to locate you, and I heard that about a mile from Cherry Valley is an abandoned farm known as the Smith place.” “Good!” cried Tom. “I’m beginning to believe you, my man. If this works out it will be the best day’s work you’ve done for a long time.” “But, Tom!” objected Mr. Damon who, in spite of his eccentricities was hard-headed when it came to business. “Assuming, Tom, that Ned is a prisoner on the Smith place, how could he fly this kite to ask for help? Maybe this man is just making up that part of the story. He may be one of those who helped kidnap Ned and have brought this message from the captors.”