It is better to know your man than to know his tracks. Gilbert Tyson had somehow come to understand Hervey in that one day since his arrival at camp, and he had no intention of exhausting his breath in a futile chase along the road. There, indeed, was a scout for you. He was on the job before he had started.

The road ran behind the camp, the camp lying between the road and the lake. To go to Catskill Landing one must go by this road. Also to make a short cut to Jonesville (where the night express stopped) one must go for the first mile or so along this road. The road was a state road and of macadam, and did not show footprints.

Tyson did not know a great deal about tracking, but he knew something of human nature, he had heard something of Hervey, and he eliminated the road. He believed that he would not overtake Hervey there.

Across the road, at intervals, several trails led up into the thicker woods. One led to the Morton farm, another to Witches' Pond.

Tyson, being new at camp, did not know the direction of these trails, but he knew that all trails go somewhere. He had heard, during the day, that Hervey was on cordial terms with every farmer, squatter, tollgate keeper, bridge tender, hobo, and traveling show for miles around.

So he examined these trails carefully at their beginnings beside the road. Only one of them interested him. Upon this, about ten feet in from the road, was a rectangular area impressed in the earth which, in the woods, was still damp after the storm. With his flashlight Gilbert examined this. He thought a box might have stood there. Then he noticed two ruffled places in the earth, each on one of the long sides of the rectangle. He knew then what it meant; a suit-case had stood there.

If he had known more about the circumstance of Hervey's leaving, he might have been touched by the picture of the wandering minstrel pausing to rest upon his burden, there at the edge of the woods.

So this was the trail. Elated, Gilbert hurried on, pausing occasionally to verify his conviction by a footprint in the caked earth. The consistency of the earth was ideal for footprints. Yes, some one had passed here not more than an hour before. Here and there was an occasional hole in the earth where a stick might have been pressed in, showing that the stormy petrel had sometimes used his stick as a cane.

For half an hour Gilbert followed this trail with a feeling of elation, of triumph. Soon he must overtake the wanderer. After a little, the trail became indistinct where it passed through a low, marshy area. The drenching of the woods by the late storm was apparent still in the low places.

Gilbert trudged through this spongy support, all but losing his balance occasionally. Soon he saw something black ahead of him. This was Witches' Pond, though he did not know it by that name.

As he approached, the ground became more and more spongy and uncertain. It was apparent that the pond had usurped much of the surrounding marsh in the recent rainy spell.

Gilbert had to proceed with caution. Once his leg sank to the knee in the oozy undergrowth. He was just considering whether he had not better abandon a trail which was indeed no longer a trail at all, and pick his way around the pond, when he noticed something a little distance ahead of him which caused him to pause and strain his eyes to see it better in the gathering dusk. As he looked a cold shudder went through him. What he saw was, perhaps, fifty feet off. A log was there, one end of which was in the ground, the other end projecting at an angle. Its position suggested the pictures of torpedoed liners going down, and there passed through Gilbert's agitated mind, all in a flash, a vision of the great Lusitania sinking—slowly sinking.

For this great log was going down. Slowly, very slowly; but it was going down. Or else Gilbert's eyes and the deepening shadows were playing a strange trick....

He dragged his own foot out of the treacherous ground and looked about for safer support. There was a suction as he dragged his foot up which sent his heart to his mouth. "Quicksand," he muttered, shudderingly.

Was it too late? He backed cautiously out of the jaws of this horrible monster of treachery and awful death, feeling his way with each tentative, cautious step. He stood ankle deep, breathing more easily. He was back at the edge of that oozy, clinging, all devouring trap. He breathed easier.

He looked at the log. It was going down. It stood almost upright now, and offering no resistance with its bulk, was sinking rapidly. In a minute it looked like a stump. It shortened. Gilbert stood motionless and watched it, fascinated. Instinctively he retreated a few feet, to still more solid support. He was standing in ordinary mud now.

Down, down....

A long legged bird came swooping through the dusk across the pond, lit upon the sinking trunk, and then was off again.

"Lucky it has wings," Gilbert said. There was no other way to safety.

Down, down, down—it was just a hubble. The oozy mass sucked it in, closed over it. It was gone.

There was nothing but the dusk and the pond, and the discordant croaking of frogs.

Then, close to where the log had been, Gilbert saw something else. It was a little dab of yellow. It grew smaller; disappeared. There was nothing to be seen now but a little spot of gray; probably some swamp growth ...

No....

Just then Gilbert saw upon it a tiny speck which sparkled. There were other specks. He strained his eyes to pierce the growing darkness. He was doubtful, then certain, then doubtful. He advanced, ever so cautiously, a step or two, to see it better.

Yes. It was.

Utterly sick at heart he turned his head away. There before him, still defying by its lightness of weight, the hungry jaws of the heartless, terrible, devouring monster that eats its prey alive, stood the little rimless, perforated and decorated cap of Hervey Willetts. Joyous and buoyant it seemed, defying its inevitable fate with the blithe spirit of its late owner. It floated still, after the log and the suit-case had gone down.

And that was all that was left of the wandering minstrel.