The wood smoke curled up in a spiral from the side of a big, rotting log where Nat had settled on the camp. The

Firebird stood beside the narrow road with the lunch board spread, and Ned and Abe were diligently making ready the

picnic repast, of which the seven pound trout and a half-peck of potatoes, bought of a farmer, were the main viands.

But how good it all did smell! The girls had appetites equal to the boys’ own. And although Dorothy and Tavia were

deeply disappointed in their search for Tom Moran, they “threw aside carking care,” as Nat said, for the time

being.

“For there is another day coming, Dot!” he declared. “A man with a head as red as that fellow’s cannot be lost

for long—no, indeed!”

“Cheerful soul, is Nattie,” jollied Ned. “He always was hopeful. ’Member when you were fishing in the bathtub

that time, kid?”

“What time?” demanded his brother, suspecting one of Edward’s jokes.

202 “You know—when mother asked you what you expected to catch? And says you: ‘Pollyglubs.’

“‘What is a pollyglub?’ says the mater, and you handed her back a hot one.

“Oh, I did?” grunted Nat. “Don’t remember it. What did I say?”

“Why, says you: ‘Don’t know; I haven’t caught one yet.’ Oh, you couldn’t beat Nattie for hopefulness. He was

one sanguine kid,” laughed Ned. Bob slapped Nat on the back at that and rolled him over on a dry bit of sod where

they wrestled for a few minutes—until Ned yelled for help at the campfire. Soon all six of the young folk were busy

discussing the luncheon.

“This is really the nicest meal I’ve eaten since we were in camp—eh, Doro?” asked Tavia.

“I believe you, dear,” admitted her friend.

But Dorothy could not be very enthusiastic. Her disappointment over missing Tom Moran was keen. And she was not much

fun that night when the boys all came over to Tavia’s for a “sing” and a general good time. Her mind was fixed

upon the watch-and-watch they were to keep upon the general delivery window of the post-office the next day.

Joe demanded the privilege of being the first “man on duty.” He was deeply interested in the Tom Moran conspiracy,

as he insisted upon calling it because he admired Dorothy so, and because203 his boyish heart and sense of chivalry

had been touched by the story of little Celia, “the findling.”

“If this chap who’s written to you, Doro,” said Joe, with decided appreciation of the situation, “is in

communication with Tom Moran, maybe we can catch Celia’s brother before he gets any farther away from Dalton.”

“But he’s going farther away all the time, it seems,” sighed Dorothy. “And up there beyond Polk’s mill is a

wild country.”

Young Joe went off after an early breakfast in Tavia’s kitchen, full of importance. He was to stand guard at the

post-office window until ten o’clock, or until one of the other boys, or Dorothy or Tavia, relieved him.

The signal agreed upon with the mail-clerk was a newspaper dropped through the opening after the person calling for

“John Smith’s” letter turned away. Joe served his time patiently, and nothing happened. Nat White lounged down,

entered the post-office corridor, tweaked Joe’s ear, and sent him off about his business.

“Johnny Travers and Rogue are waiting for you to go woodchucking,” Nat told his cousin. “Off with you!”

Dorothy took her own luncheon early, and drifted into the post-office about one o’clock. Tavia was to join her

later.

204 “Never did think you’d come,” groaned Nat. “I’m starved to death.”

“No sign of the Mystery yet?” breathed Dorothy.

“Nary a sign. I’m off! Good luck.”

And if finding the mysterious “John Smith” was sure enough good luck, Dorothy could consider herself fortunate

within half on hour. A lanky, hesitating youth approached the general delivery window. Twice he stepped back and

allowed other people to get in front of him. Somehow Dorothy’s attention was particularly attracted to the

nondescript’s face.

He might have been seventeen—perhaps older. There was a little yellow fuzz on his cheeks and chin, showing that his

blonde beard was sprouting early. He was possessed of sharp features and a high and narrow forehead, prominent,

watery blue eyes, and scarcely a vestige of eyebrows or lashes. This lack in the upper part of his face gave him a

blank appearance—like the end wall of a house with two shutterless windows in it.

Below his countenance was quite as unattractive. In the first place he had a retreating, weak chin, prominent upper

teeth, and an enormous Adam’s apple. He was evidently nervous, or bashful. Dorothy saw him swallow several times

before he could speak to the clerk inside the window.205 And when he swallowed, that bunch in his throat went up and

down in a most ridiculous way.

“What did you say the name was?” Dorothy heard the mail clerk ask.

The shambling youth repeated it: “John Smith. Mis-ter John Smith. Yes, sir. Thank ye, sir.”

The boy backed away with something white in his hand which Dorothy knew to be her letter. A newspaper, pushed

through the window, fluttered to the floor of the corridor. But Dorothy was already going out of the post-office.

The youth followed her out. The letter had been put away somewhere in his skimpy clothing; for it must be admitted

that not a garment visible on the stranger seemed to fit him.

Either his trousers, and coat, and vest, had been intended for a much smaller youth, or he was growing so fast tha............