“These provisions are mighty welcome,” Prescott had remarked at the time, “but I’m not sure but that I would rather have Hibbert himself here—–­I’ve so much to tell him.”

“He’ll come, in time, when he gets your letter at the Eagle House,” Reade had answered, for Dick had told all his chums his suspicions regarding young Mosher.

“What are we to do this afternoon?” asked Dave, seating himself beside Prescott as three of the chums started for the swimming pool.

“Gymnastics,” Dick replied.  “Especially bar work.  And some boxing, of course.”

“You ought to be excused from boxing for the present,” grinned Darry.  “You look as though you had had enough for a while.”

For Dick’s left cheek was still decorated with a bruise that young Mosher had planted there.  The boxing of Dick & Co., this summer, was real work.  It was done with bare knuckles, though, of course, without anger or the desire to do injury.  Boxing with bare knuckles was Prescott’s own idea for hardening himself and his chums for the rough work of the gridiron.

“I’ll take my share of the boxing,” Dick retorted.  “Having a sore spot on my face will make me all the more careful in my guard.”

“Queer we don’t hear from Hibbert,” mused Greg Holmes.

“Not at all,” Dave contended.  “Hibbert simply isn’t back at the Eagle House yet, and perhaps the hotel people have had no orders about forwarding his mail It may be a fortnight before we hear from him.”

“Thanks to the thoughtfulness of Hibbert we can remain in camp a good deal more than a fortnight longer,” observed Prescott, glancing over the greatly increased food supply.  “Perhaps it was all right for Hibbert to repay our courtesy the other day, but he has sent us something like twenty or thirty times as much food as his party ate.”

“I guess Hibbert has more money than he knows what to do with,” mused Greg aloud.

“Even if he has,” Prescott smiled seriously, “there is no reason why he should feel called upon to keep us in food.  I’d give four fifths of that food to know where to reach Hibbert, or any of that party, in a hurry.  Jupiter!”

“What’s up?” asked Dave, eyeing his chum in astonishment, for Dick had suddenly leaped to his feet, and was now dancing about like an Indian.

“Say, but we must have fried eggs in the place of brains!” cried young Prescott reproachfully.

“What calls forth that severe remark?” demanded Darry.

“Why, we know well enough where to get hold of Hibbert’s party,” Dick went on.

“Do we?” asked Greg.

“Certainly,” cried Dick triumphantly.  “Just send a note to Mr. Colquitt in care of Blinders’ Detective Agency.  I’m going to write the note now!”

Dick was half-way to the tent when Darry called after him: 

“By the way, in what city is the Blinders’ agency located?”

Dick halted short, looking blank.