"Which way?" asked Paul, as they came to a place where the road branched off, one highway leading to Lake Wagatook, and the other to a small town about two miles away.
"Let's go in to Westville. I want to see about getting a new collar for Grit. No, I didn't call you," he said to the bulldog, who came back on hearing his name.
"On to Westville then," assented Paul, and not until some time afterward did either of them realize how their choice of roads that day had to do with an important epoch in the life of a certain young man.
About half way to Westville the highway was crossed by a railroad embankment, the road being carried under it by a big culvert. It was on approaching this embankment that Paul, looking up, and seeing the figure of a man on the tracks, called Dick's attention to him.
"Look there!" he exclaimed. "That fellow's acting mighty queer, Dick. I've been noticing him ever since we came in sight of the railroad. Watch him."
Dick looked up. The man on the track above them did not seem aware of their presence. He would walk along the embankment a short distance, pause, and seem to be contemplating the rails; then, with an odd gesture would retrace his steps.
"You're right, Paul, he does act queer," agreed Dick. "I wonder what he's up to?"
"I don't know. Let's watch him a bit longer. He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to us."
As they looked, the man sat down on a pile of stones near the edge of the track, and began looking through his pockets. He seemed to find what he wanted--a bit of paper that fluttered in the wind--and then, placing it on his knee he began to write.
"Maybe he's a track walker, and he's found some defect in the rails," suggested Paul.
"Track-walkers don't dress that way. He's got a tailor-made suit on."
Whatever the man was writing did not seem to take long, for he soon arose. Then the two cadets saw him carefully pin the paper he had written to the inner pocket of his coat.
"Well, what do you know about that?" demanded Dick.
"It looks strange," admitted Paul. "He sure isn't going to lose that paper."
As he spoke the man resumed his pacing of the track. He came to the edge of the concrete bridge that carried the railroad over the highway, paused a moment, and then, with a shake of his head, retraced his steps. Then he came to a pause at the place where he had rested to write the note. He looked down the embankment, and once more shook his head.