“And in my boat, too, I’ll wager!” cried Tom. “The impudent scallawags! To take my boat, and then use it to carry off my friends. They must have taken some of my gasolene, too. Oh, wait until I get a chance at them!” The new discovery was overpowering for a time, and Tom sat down to think it out. Then he came to a decision. “I’ve got to help my chums,” he said. “I’ve got to go to their rescue. There’s but one place where they would be taken. The old hermit, or Skeel and the cronies, have them in the old mill--or, hold on--maybe they’re captive in the cave where we stayed that night. Those are two places where they might be. What shall I do?” It was no easy problem for the lone camper to solve, and Tom was frankly puzzled. “I think I’ll tackle the old mill first,” he decided. “That’s the most likely place. Though I wonder why in the world the hermit or Skeel would want to capture Dick, Bert and Jack? Unless the treasure has been located, and they don’t want us to find out about it. But they haven’t got me!” With Tom, to decide was to act, and so, putting himself up a lunch, he set off in the skiff for the old mill. It was hard rowing alone, for usually two worked at the oars, but our hero stuck to it, and in due time he reached the river. Then he decided to pay a visit to the cave. He concealed his boat under some bushes, and, taking the oars with him, he hid them well up on the hill. “If they get away with the boat, they can’t row, anyhow,” he reasoned, “and I don’t believe they’ll find her.” He approached the cave cautiously, for he did not want to fall a victim to those who had captured his chums. But the cavern in the hillside was empty, and Tom felt a sense of disappointment. “Now for the mill,” he mused, as he set off in the skiff again. He had almost reached it, and was debating within himself how best to approach it, when a new thought came to him. “Suppose they catch me?” he asked himself. “They are four to one, and, though I don’t mind Sam or Nick, the hermit and Skeel would be more than a match for me. If they get me I can’t be of any help to the boys.” Tom was no coward, and he would have dared anything to rescue his chums. Yet he realized that this was one of the occasions when discretion was the better part of valor. “I think I can serve ’em best by staying on the outside a while,” he argued, as he got to a point where he could catch a glimpse of the old mill. “I’ll look about a bit,” he went on, “and see what sort of a plan I can think out.” Keeping well in the shadow of the bushes that lined the river bank, he watched the mill. For half an hour or more there was no sign of life in it, and then, so suddenly that it startled Tom, there appeared at one of the third story windows the form of the old hermit, and he had a gun in his hands.