Burk had shed his drab convict’s clothing, torn and stained as it was. He was now attired in garments contributed by the twins, and wore a flannel shirt, black sweater under a Norfolk jacket, and Jake’s corduroy trousers. A pair of stout army shoes had replaced his sodden prison footwear. A cloth cap concealed his tell-tale cropped head; he would not dare to remove that cap where others might see him. His shaving operations had left a small, neat mustache on his lip, which gave him a cocky, cheerful look. In fact, the food and rest he had taken had done much to restore him to his old, care-free outlook upon life. This was a surprising Burk; he was actually grinning at them, as though his whole future did not depend upon the outcome of the adventure upon which they were about to embark.
“Well,” answered Jake slowly, “we’ve had to make a few changes in our plans. It’s this way. A goofy kid named Jones, in my tent, has gone and gotten himself lost somewhere. Our leader is worried to death about what might have happened to him—this kid is a nosy bird we nicknamed Sherlock, and is always fussing around trying to detect things. He didn’t show up for supper, and everybody’s been chasing all over the place ever since, trying to find him. We’re supposed to be looking for him now ourselves.”
“I think, from what you say, that I know the boy you mean. Well, he detected himself into some trouble.”
“I do. If you’ll look over in the corner, there by my bed, you’ll find him safe and sound, though a little scared.”
The Utway twins pushed past the speaker, and tiptoed to the place mentioned. Sure enough; there on the canvas lay Sherlock Jones, flat on his back, his wrists pinioned behind him, a gag in his mouth held in place by his own handkerchief, above which a pair of pale eyes goggled through his thick glasses with a piteous, pleading look. For some hours past, the amateur sleuth had been expecting a gruesome death any moment from the mysterious stranger who had trapped him; now, at sight of the notorious Utway brothers, he thought his last hour had struck. He wriggled in his bonds helplessly. Through all the long time of his captivity, Sherlock Jones had come to the conclusion that he didn’t want to be a famous detective. If he ever got through this harrowing experience alive, he’d never shadow another suspect again.