“That’s the best idea.  I don’t much fancy a hand-to-hand encounter with a band of such desperate ruffians as those gipsies have shown themselves to be.”

“Don’t be scared.  We won’t have any trouble if we’re careful.”

“I’m not scared; but if we did get in a tussle with them they could easily overpower us and then we’d have done more harm than good for they’d take fright and move right off.”

“That’s my idea.  We’ll be as cautious as mousing cats.”

“Better stop talking, then.  I never heard a mousing cat mi-ouw.”

Cautiously they crept on.  The trail still held good.  At last they reached the head of the glen where a spring showed the source of the brook.

“What next?” whispered Jimsy.

“Let’s see if we can find which way that fellow went.  The ground is spongy all around here and—­ah! this way!  See it?”

Jimsy nodded.  They struck off to the right, clambering over rocks till they reached the summit of a small hill.  A tall dead tree stood there and Jimsy volunteered to climb it in order to spy out the surrounding country for traces of the gipsys.  But on his return to the ground he was compelled to admit that they had gained nothing.

“I thought I might see some smoke that would give me a clew to their whereabouts,” he explained.

“Not much chance of their being as foolish as that.  I guess they know searching parties are out all over by this time, and they are too foxy to light fires.”

“I might have thought of that,” admitted Jimsy; “it would be about the last thing they would do.  What will we do now?”

“I hardly know.  Hello! there’s an odd-looking place.  Right over there.  See that deep canon?  That one with the fallen tree across it?”

“Yes, I do now.  Let’s look over there.”

“All right.  You’re on.”

The two boys struck off in the direction of Roy’s discovery.  It was indeed an odd freak of nature.  Some convulsion of the earth had detached quite a section of land from the surrounding country.  It was, in fact, an island in the midst of the woods with only the fallen tree for a bridge.

“Let’s cross it and examine the place,” suggested Roy, with all a boy’s curiosity.

Together they crossed the old tree, which had evidently fallen there by accident, although, in reality, it formed a perfect bridge.  The “island” was thickly wooded and they pushed forward across it, not without some difficulty.

Suddenly they came upon a sight that made them halt dead in their tracks.

A man holding a rifle was sitting on a fallen log.  The instant he saw them he raised his weapon.

“Don’t come no further,” he said.

“Why not?” demanded Roy indignantly.

“See that sign?” said the man.

He pointed to a rudely painted sign on a tree at his back.

“Dangir.  No Trespasin.”

That was what it said in bold letters that sprawled across its surface in an untidy fashion.  The execution of the thing was as bad as its spelling.