“They’re gone,” replied Mr. Hinman.   “Probably the thief thought
the papers valuable, also, but they weren’t.-----”

“You were robbed—–­when?” asked Dick.

“When I was sleeping.”

“At some farm house?” Reade inquired.

“No; I slept on a pile of old rags that I had taken in trade.”

“In the wagon?-----” from Prescott.

“Yes.”

“But why did you sleep in the wagon?  And where did you have the wagon?” Dick pressed.

“The wagon was off the road, two miles below here,” the peddler explained brokenly.  “It would cost me fifty cents for a bed at a farm house, so, when the night is fine, I sleep outdoors on the wagon and save the money.  It’s cheaper with the horse, too, as I have to pay only for his feed.”

“But the money?” Tom pressed the old man.  Reuben Hinman groaned, but did not take to sobbing again.

“I woke up to-night, and found it gone,” he answered.

“Did you feel or hear anyone prowling about, or searching your clothing?”

“No; if I had discovered anyone robbing me,” shivered the peddler, “I would have caught and held on to him.  I have strong hands.  I have strong hands.  Do you see?”

Holding up his wiry, claw-like hands, the old peddler worked the fingers convulsively.

“Then how do you know you were robbed, Mr. Hinman?” Dick insisted.

“Because the money is gone,” replied the old man simply.

“You searched the rags, and the surrounding parts of your wagon?” Reade asked.

“Young man, you may be sure that I did.”

“And where were you going when we stopped you?”

“For help.”

“Whose help?” Dick inquired.

“I don’t know,” replied the old man blankly.  “Perhaps to a lawyer.”

“Lawyers don’t recover stolen property,” rejoined Reade.

“Perhaps not,” assented the peddler.  “The people whom you should see are the local officers,” Dick assured the old man.  “Probably they couldn’t recover your money, though, since you have no idea who robbed you.”

Reuben Hinman groaned helplessly.  It was plain to the two high school boys that the peddler had started out, thus, in the middle of the night simply because his misery was too great to permit of inaction on his part.

“I wish we could help you,” Prescott went on earnestly.

“Why can’t you?” eagerly demanded the peddler, as one who clutches at the frailest straw.

“Call Dave, Tom.  Try not to wake the others,” murmured Dick.  Then, while Reade was gone, Prescott asked: 

“Mr. Hinman, why on earth didn’t you keep your money in a bank, and then pay by check?”

“No, no, no!  No banks for me!” cried the old man tremulously.

“Are you afraid to trust banks with your money?” demanded Dick incredulously.

“No, no!   It isn’t that,” protested the peddler confusedly.   “The
banks are all right, and honest men run them.   But-----”

Whatever was in his mind he checked himself.  It was as though he had been on the verge of uttering words that must not be spoken.