“They was just men,” the boy replied. “Men like you,” and he comprised the four in a roving glance. “But they wasn’t dressed so good as what you are—you three I mean,” and he indicated Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku. He seemed to omit Tagg, and a moment later the reason was obvious. For the boy added: “They was dressed more like what he is,” and he pointed directly at the tramp. In spite of the fact that Bill Tagg had been freshened up considerably since he shuffled to Tom with Ned’s message, there was still an air of vagrancy about the wanderer. It stuck out all over him. He did not seem to mind being made use of for this not very flattering comparison. “How many men were there?” asked Tom. “Three well ones and a sick one,” the boy answered. “A sick man!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “What do you mean?” “Well, his head was tied up in rags and the other men carried him out on a cot. He didn’t say nothin’, the sick man didn’t.” “That was Ned!” murmured Mr. Damon. “Bless my doctor’s bill, Tom, but do you think they’ve done for poor Ned?” “No, I don’t think so,” was the reply. “I think they gagged Ned so he couldn’t call for help, and they probably bound him with rope. Naturally he couldn’t walk, and they had to carry him out. So he would appear to be a sick person. Well, we know how many we have to fight—three men,” he concluded. “Can you tell me anything more about the men who were here, son?” asked Tom, tossing the boy a quarter which the lad picked up in his toes after it had fallen in the dust near him. “Did you see them often?” “I sneaked down here pretty near every day after they come to this old house,” the boy answered. “They didn’t see me, ’cause I hid in the bushes. But they was funny men.” “How do you mean—funny?” “They used to fly kites out of the window—anyhow, one of ’em did. But I couldn’t see him plain, ’cause there’s iron bars over that window—up there,” and he pointed to the casement of the room where Tom had found Ned’s stick pin. “So one of the men flew kites out of that window, did he?” encouraged Tom. “What happened to them?” “Most of ’em fell in the weeds,” the boy said. “They wasn’t very good kites—just made of old, brown-bag paper. I can make better kites ’n them. They was made of old sticks. I picked some of ’em up, but they wasn’t any good. One flew a long way off, though. I couldn’t find that.” “I can see just what happened,” Tom spoke in a low voice to Mr. Damon. “Poor Ned tried two or three kite messengers before he finally got one into a stiff breeze that carried it to Cherry Valley. But we are losing valuable time. Which way did the three well men take the sick man in their big auto?” Tom asked the barefooted lad. “Down there,” and he pointed to the western road. “Where does that lead to?” “Lake Carlopa, ’bout ten miles farther on.” “Lake Carlopa!” cried Tom. “That’s where they’re heading for. Come on! We may catch them yet!”