“I say, Jim, that was a queer thing for Corso to do!” The two were putting the finishing touches on their toilet. From the dining room came the voice of the man called Burnam, who seemed to do considerable talking while he ate, but if his companion spoke again, his words were inaudible.

“Yes. Listen, Buddy, I think Corso knows that lad down there.”

“Maybe he does,” Bob agreed, but that hadn’t occurred to him.

“Maybe we can help those two. Come on down, and if the bounders show a disposition to pump us, let’s give them an earful.”

“Great guns, we don’t want to tell him they are here—”

“Of course not, you nut. We’ll see what they lead up to. You follow my lead. Come along.” They raced down stairs quietly and into the dining room. Mrs. Fenton had finished serving the travelers and had gone to the cellar where she was rescuing preserves.

“Good car you have,” Jim remarked, and Burnam glanced at him.

“Pretty good,” he admitted. “Know anything about cars?”

“Enough to run a flivver,” Jim answered modestly. Burnam sized them up as a pair of country hicks and smiled broadly.

“Interesting neighborhood around here,” he ventured.

“Oh, fair,” Jim drawled.

“Not many strangers,” Burnam went on.

“A sprinklin’, but nobody wants them,” Jim volunteered.

“Exclusive community. What do you do with strangers?”

“Leave ’em alone. There’s a colony further up. Summer people, most from cities, come every year.”

“Same ones all the time?”

“Sure. Fellow who owns the land won’t let ’em bring outsiders,” the boy explained taking a chair. “Enjoy your dinner?”

“Fine. Ever have any southern people—”

“Few,” Jim admitted.

“Chap I know and his nephew came around here for the fishing. He liked the place. Perhaps you know him.”

“How long has he been coming?” Jim asked.

“I understand last fall was the first time, come to think of it.”

“Nobody was here last fall,” Jim declared positively. “What sort of chap is he, about your size?”

“No, very slender fellow, dark skin and eyes, rather good looking.” Jim looked at Bob.

“Maybe it’s those ginks,” he said scornfully.

“Sounds like them,” Bob admitted.

“Where they stopping?” Burnam asked, eagerly.

“They ain’t,” Jim grinned, then added, “They tried this neighborhood for a week, then went on into Canada. The station agent said their luggage was shipped to Toronto.”

“You don’t say.” The big man seemed disappointed and the little one smiled behind his napkin.

“Chap like that wouldn’t stay in so small a place,” he remarked.

“No, I suppose not. Well, can I pay you—”

“Pay my brother,” Jim answered, and strolled out of the house. In the soft earth he had no difficulty in trailing Corso’s foot prints and a few minutes later saw the man and the boy crouched in the garden where they were completely hidden from the road. “Hello,” he said softly. “I told those fellows that you two went to Toronto. Know where that is?”

“I do,” Corso answered.

“I let them ask me questions, then told them you stayed here a week. They are so disgusted with the place I don’t think they’ll hang around, but you better keep out of sight. I’m going to escort them off the island, but they don’t know that.”

“Much in your debt we are, Sir,” Corso said quietly. “We shall not forget, Sir.” His eyes turned toward the road. “Bad men, Sir. Very, very bad men.”

“They don’t look any too good,” Jim admitted. “You stay here until one of us comes and tells you they are gone.” Jim strode quickly back toward the house and as he crossed the road he saw Burnam getting into the limousine.

“Get a move on, Dyke,” he growled, and the smaller chap hastily took his place. Motioning to his step-brother to keep quiet, Jim stepped behind the huge maple, and when the car hacked into the road, he hopped onto the spare tires, caught the strap and threw his legs over, ducking his head so that if the men should either of them glance through the window, he would not be seem. The car raced off carrying the stow-a-way. “I told you those lads were in this part of the country,” Burnam said shrilly when they had gone some distance from Stumble Inn. “I know just how to handle natives, and I got exactly the information we want.”

“Yes, but how the blazes do you expect to pick up the trail in Canada?” Dyke demanded in a lower tone.

“It’ll be easier than in the United States,” the big fellow replied, and after that he seemed to concentrate his whole attention on driving, for the road was rough from the rains and the boy in the back was soon splashed thickly with mud. Presently they came to the bridge which connected North Hero with Isle La Motte. Jim could see that the water had risen until it was splashing through the planking, and dozens of men were working hard to keep it from being washed away. They were bringing the biggest rocks they could haul and were distributing them in piles from one end to the other. Young Austin hoped anxiously that none of the workmen would call Burnam’s attention to the extra passenger he was carrying, but they passed over quickly, and if anyone noticed the boy, nothing was done about it. They probably thought him a hiker tired of walking and unable to get a lift on his way. The car sped on to the station, but it was deserted, and Jim was mighty thankful that no agent was there to answer inquiries regarding the travelers who were supposed to have gone on to Toronto. Half a mile ahead the machine had to slow up for a sharp curve, so feeling confident that the pair were really headed for Canada, the boy dropped off and started to trudge home. A good-natured farmer gave him a lift, and at last he saw Bob anxiously scanning the road.

“Gosh all hemlock, I was going into the air to look for you. Say, come on, quick.” He led the way to the water’s edge, and far across the thrashing lake Jim saw a tiny boat, with an outboard motor on the stern, chugging valiantly against the waves and making for Fisher’s Island.

“Who is it?” Jim demanded.

“Corso and the boy. I saw them a few minutes after they left the shore. They have a load of stuff aboard as if they intend to hide over there,” Bob explained.

“Gee, I wonder if it’s safe!” Jim said anxiously.

“I asked Uncle Norman and he said the greater part of the land is under water now, but there are high spots that may serve them. Let’s keep an eye on the place, Jim. I think that pair is all right, and gosh, I’d hate like fury to have them carried away in this. Just look at it.” Jim didn’t need to look any more than he had for as far as he could see, the wreckage, large and small, was being tossed and dashed to splinters.

“So should I. We’ll keep watch, then if it looks bad we’ll go after them in Her Highness. I say, did you happen to notice the number of that limousine? I, like a dub, forgot to look at it.”

“I wrote it down,” Bob answered proudly, and he produced the figures.

“Good work. I’m going to call up Ruhel and tell him to be on the look-out for that pair. They’re no good and the Mounties will keep them under observation.” He hurried into the house, called long distance, and in five minutes was telling the story to the chief, who listened with interest.

“Thanks no end, Old Man. I take it you’d like us to let them roam around here for a while and give your friends a chance.”

“That’s the idea.”

“We’ll keep them hunting. It will do them good. Oh, by the way, I say, what time did you lads breeze in to your house this morning—”

“Don’t ask personal questions,” Jim retorted.

“I don’t have to, I know. Mason came in this afternoon and told the story. You knights had some night. I hope they pin something on you—”

“Probably they will. We ought to have a lemon. Well, thanks for listening.”

“Same to you.” The connection was cut off, and Jim joined his step-brother on the veranda.

“Listen, Buddy, that watch dog Uncle Norman bought, died this morning, and now the other one is sick. What do you know about that?”

“Rotten. Wonder if there was anything the matter with them when they arrived, or if some one over there didn’t want watch dogs?”

“Hezzy?”

“That’s the lad I’m going to keep an eye on. Gosh.” He jumped to his feet and started to walk toward the garden. “For a quiet little place, we surely have found no end of excitement since we landed.”

“It hasn’t been exactly dull,” Bob admitted. They went on in silence and at last they reached the edge of the alfalfa meadow. The stones the strange boy had been working with a few days before were neatly arranged in a low wall, and the land above was terraced as if by someone skilled in the art. The whole section which the Fenton’s had called the bog had been plowed, smoothed on a slight incline toward the lake, which left the garden side lower than that land, and this also was built up with a cleverly set curb of stones. There were three small outlets which acted as drains, and in spite of the heavy rains the land was comparatively dry.

“Well, anyway, your uncle has got this work to be thankful for. It sure looks like a grand piece of land. Perhaps he can plant it with something that he can harvest this season. Must be odd to be in a place where the summers are as short as they are here. I’d like to see it in the fall. It must be quite a sight.”

“I’d like to see it in the winter. Mom says the lake freezes over, and the people who live near cut ice, and they can cross to New York, or any place they want to go. They drive, have races and skate,” Bob volunteered.

“We can’t stay to see all that,” Jim said regretfully. “The parents wouldn’t stand for it.”

“No, I know it.”

“Supper,” Mr. Fenton called, and the boys made their way back to the house. They were very thoughtful as they took their places, and the food was eaten in silence.

“Any more turkey’s stolen, Uncle Norman?”

“Some were taken last night,” the man answered. Just then the telephone rang and Aunt Belle answered.

“The Norman’s are going to stay here all night,” she said quietly. “Their house is flooded above the kitchen.”

That evening Stumble Inn was filled to the brim with neighbors. Belated supper was served to refugees who straggled in, and the two boys turned to and helped. They carried down cots, made beds, washed dishes, turned horses into the pasture, and drove cattle into the meadow. It was late at night when they were repairing a place in the fence to be sure that the nervous stock did not break through and get away. When the job was finished, they made their way back to the house, and all along the road they could see tents pitched, or families gathered about their cars or wagons prepared to sleep out of doors. The protection they had was frail and if another storm should come up suddenly half their worldly goods would be swept into Champlain.

In spite of their dilemma the Vermonters were facing their troubles quietly and without a whimper. Although there were as many as fifty people within earshot, hardly a sound could be heard. Then a child, whose sleeping quarters was under the big maple, cried in fright. The mother tried to hush it, but the little fellow’s terror did not diminish. Without an instant’s hesitation, Bob leaned over the wagon.

“Don’t be afraid, little fellow. You come on in and sleep—”

“There isn’t any room in your aunt’s house, Bob,” the woman answered. “She would have taken us if she could.”

“Come along anyway,” Bob insisted. He picked the boy up in his arms, while Jim offered to help the woman.

“I’ll be all right here,” she answered, “if you can find a place for the children.” A little girl raised her head.

“Come on, Old Man,” Bob urged. The boy came to him willingly, and the girl reached her arms out to Jim. Together the two went to the house. The living-room door was wide open, and there were beds spread out on the chairs as well as the floor.

“I put some more beds in your room, boys,” Aunt Belle said softly.

“Anyone in our cots?” Bob asked.

“No,” she answered.

“We’ll put the babies on them, Aunt Belle. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not, Bob, but where will you sleep?”

“Oh, in one of the hammocks—”

“You can’t, my dear, they are all full.”

“We’ll find a place. Aunt Belle, maybe you’d better come along. We don’t know much about little fellows.” They started to climb the stairs and his aunt followed. It did not take long for the little codgers to be tucked in comfortably, and in a moment they were both asleep. It seemed to the boys as if the very air was charged with impending danger as they went down stairs again. Some of the Vermont men and women were sitting around on newspapers on the lawn. They spoke softly, partly because of their friends trying to rest, and partly because they were making a brave effort to face the disaster courageously.

“Heard that no more trains can get through,” one man remarked.

“Ed Allen’s prize sheep ran into the lake and were carried away,” said another.

“Something frightened them.”

“The lower end of Canada is in a bad way. The border men asked for all the milk they could get, even if it’s sour.”

“Expect we better do some sort of organizing and see what we have,” another proposed. “Let’s talk it over with Fenton.” The boys moved on and sat down against the shed.

“Say Jim, know what this makes me think of, these people I mean?”

“Makes me think of so much, I’m getting brain-storm,” Jim answered, but his tone was sober.

“The history we read—these Vermonters. Those Allen boys. Did you know the two towns, North Hero and South Hero are given those names because of the brothers, and a lot of their original tract of land is still in the families’ possession?”

“I heard your mother say so. They were a great gang.”

“Sure were. Well, I was thinking how these people, some of them members of those old families, still stand shoulder to shoulder. Of course most folks are pretty decent when neighbors are in trouble, but here they are also quiet and sure of each other. No wonder they are considered a fine lot. A couple of hundred years ago just a handful of them bucked against the hardships and won out. Now, Uncle Norman and Aunt Belle are facing ruin maybe, but they are right with their neighbors, ready to share everything they have as long as they have it—you see what I mean—it’s a great spirit, I think.”

“So do I. I say, let’s see if we can find a couple of blankets and sleep out here,” Jim proposed.

“Suits me,” Bob agreed. They had no trouble finding bedding and soon they were ready to turn in. Before they did, they stood staring off across the black water of Lake Champlain.

“I say, isn’t that a light over there on Fisher’s?”

“Was just watching it. Perhaps it’s Corso’s fire. Gosh, that means they’re all right and I’m glad of that.” They watched the tiny streak of red that burned cheerily in the darkness, but finally they stretched out and were soon asleep.