Mr. Bangs proved to be a genial companion in the days that followed. Nothing suited him better than to fill up the Flyaway with the crew of campers and go sailing on the pond. No longer seeking to support a fallen dignity as skipper, he was pleased to receive instruction from Henry Burns and Harvey, and even occasionally from Little Tim, in the art of sailing.

They showed him how to sail the craft nicely to windward, without the sail shaking; how to run off the wind, with no danger of jibing her; how to reef with safety, and how to watch the water for signs of squalls. He, in turn, told them good stories of the Fishing Club; and, as he really did know how to fish, he returned their instruction with lessons in this art.

It was certainly a pretty piece of sport, when Mr. Bangs would take his light, split-bamboo fly-rod and send fifty feet of line, straightening out its turns through the air, and dropping a tiny fly on the water as easily as though it had fallen there in actual flight. Even Harvey, and Tom and Bob, who had done some little fly fishing, found Mr. Bangs an expert who could teach them more than they had ever dreamed, of its possibilities. Little Tim, who had threshed brook waters with an alder stick, using a ragged fly, was an apt pupil, when Mr. Bangs entrusted to him his fine rod, and showed him how to make a real cast.

“There, you’re catching it, now,” exclaimed Mr. Bangs to Tim, one morning, as they floated on the still surface of the pond, about a half mile above the camps. “Don’t let your arm go too far back on that back cast. Don’t use your shoulder. You’re not chopping wood. Just use the wrist on the forward stroke, when you get the line moving forward.”

Tim, enthusiastic, tried again and again, striving to remember all points at once, and now and then making a fair cast.

It was only practice work; but, somehow or other, a big black bass failed to understand that, and suddenly Tim’s quick eye saw the water in a whirl about his fly. He struck, and the fish was fast.

“Well, by Jove!” exclaimed Mr. Bangs. “One never knows what’s going to happen when he’s fishing. I didn’t think they’d take the fly here at this time of year. Let him have the line now, when he rushes. That’s it. Now hold him a little.”

The light fly-rod was bending nearly double. Intermittently, the reel would sing as the fish made a dash for freedom and the line ran out.

“Look out now; he’s turned. Reel in,” shouted Mr. Bangs, more excited even than Little Tim. He wouldn’t have had that fish get away for anything. “Here he comes to the top,” he continued. “Reel in on him. Hold him. There, he’s going to jump. Hold him. Don’t let him shake the hook out.”

The black bass, a strong active fish, made a leap out of water, shook his jaws as though he would tear the hook loose, then shot downward again.

“Give him a little on the rod when he hits the water,” cried Mr. Bangs. “That’s right. Keep him working now. Don’t give him any slack.”

Little Tim, alternately reeling in and lifting on the road, and letting the fish have the line in his angry-rushes, was playing him well. Mr. Bangs applauded. Gradually the struggles of the big bass grew weaker. His rushes, still sharp and fierce, were soon over. By and by he turned on his side.

“Careful now,” cautioned Mr. Bangs. “Many a good bass is lost in the landing. Draw him in easy.”

Little Tim followed instructions, and Mr. Bangs deftly slid the landing net under the prize. He dipped the bass into the boat, took out a small pair of pocket-scales and weighed him.

“It’s a five-pounder!” he exclaimed. “You’ve beat the record on Whitecap this year. Well, fisherman’s luck is a great thing. You’re a born lucky fisherman.”

“Now,” he added, “we’ll just row down to your camp and I’ll cook a chowder that’ll make your eyes stick out, and have it all ready when the boys return. Save them getting a breakfast.”

They went back along shore to the empty camp, deserted by the boys, who were out for early morning fishing.

“What do you say?” inquired Mr. Bangs, “Think they’ll care if I go ahead and cook up a chowder? Guess I can do it all right. Oh, I’ve seen ’em made, a thousand times, up at the Fishing Club.”

“They’ll be glad of it,” said Little Tim. “Go ahead.”

Mr. Bangs, rummaging through the campers’ stores, proceeded to construct his chowder; while Tim busied himself about the camp, after building a fire.

Mr. Bangs, stirring the mess in a big iron kettle suspended above the blaze, waved a welcome to the boys, as they came in.

“Thought you’d like to have breakfast all ready,” he cried. “The Flyaway’s waiting for us all to get through.”

They thanked him warmly.

“Oh, I’m having as much fun as you are out of it,” he responded. “Get your plates and I’ll fill ’em up.”

He ladled out a heaping plate of the chowder for each, and they seated themselves on two great logs. Henry Burns tasted his mess first, and then he stopped, looked slyly at his comrades and didn’t eat any more. Harvey got a mouthful, and he gave an exclamation of surprise. Little Tim swallowed some, and said “Oh, giminy!” Tom and Bob and the Ellison brothers were each satisfied with one taste. They waited, expectantly, for Mr. Bangs to get his.

Mr. Bangs, helping himself liberally, started in hungrily. Then he stopped and looked around. They were watching him, interestedly. Mr. Bangs made a wry face and rinsed his mouth out with a big swallow of water.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he exclaimed. “If it isn’t sweet. Sweet chowder! Oh dear, isn’t it awful? What did it?”

Henry Burns, looking about him, pointed to a tell-tale tin can which, emptied of its contents, lay beside the fire.

Mr. Bangs had made his chowder of condensed milk, sweet and sticky.

“I say,” he exclaimed, “just throw that stuff away and we’ll go up to the landing for breakfast. I thought milk was milk. I never thought about it’s being sweetened.”

They liked Mr. Bangs, in spite of his mistakes; and he wasn’t abashed for long, when he had pretended to be able to do something that he didn’t know how to do, and had been found out. He had a hearty way of laughing about it, as though it were the best joke in all the world and there was one thing he could really do; he could cast a fly, and they admired his skill in that. And when it came time for them to leave, and bid him good-bye, they were heartily sorry to take leave of him, and hoped they should meet him again.

But Mr. Bangs was not to be gotten free from abruptly. There was bottled soda and there were stale peanuts over at the landing, where Coombs kept a small hotel a little way up from the shore; and Mr. Bangs insisted that they should go over and have a treat at his expense.

“You don’t have to start till four o’clock,” he urged. “You’ve got plenty of time.” And they needed no great amount of persuasion.

“Funny old place Coombs keeps,” he remarked, as they walked from the camps over to the landing. “All sorts of queer people drop in there over night. Last night, there were some show people in some of the rooms next to mine they’re going to leave to-morrow, for the fair up at Newbury and they kept me awake half the night, with their racket.

“They’ve got a fortune-teller among them, too,” he continued. “Say, she’s a shrewd one. Of course, she’s one of the fakers, but she’s downright smart told me a lot of things about myself that were true. Suppose she looked me over sharp. Say, I tell you what I’ll do; I’ll get her to tell your fortunes. How’d you like to have your fortunes told? I’ll pay.”

As matter of fact, they were not so enthusiastic over it as was Mr. Bangs; but they didn’t like to say so, since he seemed to take it for granted that they did. So, after they had had the soda and peanuts, Mr. Bangs ushered them, one by one, into a room, where the fortune-teller awaited them.

Perhaps she flattered most of them over-much; perhaps she even hinted at certain bright-eyed, yellow-haired young misses, whom some of them might fancy, but were not of an age to admit it. At all events, as they came forth, one by one, they made a great mystery of what she had said to them. Little Tim didn’t take kindly to the idea at all, in fact; and, when it came his turn, Henry Burns and Harvey had to take him and shove him into the room.

He was inclined to be a bit abashed when he found himself in the presence of a tall, dark, thin-faced woman, whose keen, black eyes seemed to pierce him through and through. In fact, those shrewd, quick eyes were about all anyone might need, to discover a good deal about Little Tim, whose small but wiry figure, tanned face, bare feet and dress indicated much of his condition in life.

“Come over here and sit down,” said the woman, as Tim stood, eying her somewhat doubtfully. The boy complied.

“So you want your fortune told, do you?” she asked.

“I dunno as I care much about it,” answered Tim, bluntly.

The woman smiled a little. “No?” she said. “Let’s see your hand.”

Tim extended a grimy fist across the table, the lines of which were so obscured with the soil of Coombs’s landing that it might have puzzled more than a wizard to read them. But the woman, her keen eyes twinkling, remarked quickly, “That’s a fisherman’s hand. You’re the best fisherman on the pond.”

Tim began to take more interest. “I’ve caught the biggest bass of the year,” he said.

“That’s it; what did I tell you?” exclaimed the woman. “I think you’re going to have a lot of money left to you some day,” she added, noting at a glance Tim’s poor attire. Little Tim grinned.

“You have some courage, too,” continued the woman, who had not failed to observe the boy’s features and the glance of his eye. But at this moment Little Tim gave an exclamation of surprise. Surveying the room he had espied the lettering on a partly unrolled banner in one corner, where the words, “Lorelei, the Sorceress,” were inscribed.

“Why, I’ve seen you before,” he said. “That is, I haven’t seen you, either; but I’ve seen your picture on that canvas and you don’t look like that at all.”

The woman laughed heartily. “You’re sure you don’t think it looks like me?” she added, and laughed harder than ever. “Well, I should hope not,” she said; “but I fix up like that some, for the show. Where’d you see me?”

“Why, it was down at Benton,” answered Tim. “You were with the circus.”

Then, as the full remembrance of the occasion came to him, Tim became of a sudden excited. “Say,” he asked, “what did Old Witham want?”

The woman looked at him in surprise.

“Old Witham,” she repeated, “I don’t know who you mean. I don’t know any Old Witham.”

“Oh, yes you do,” urged Tim; and he described the unmistakable figure and appearance of the corpulent colonel, together with the time and night of his visit. The woman’s eyes lit with amusement. She remembered how the colonel had parted with his money painfully.

“Oh, he didn’t want much,” she said. “Somebody had hidden some papers in a factory or mill of some sort that’s what I thought, anyway and he wanted me to tell him where they were.”

“Oh,” replied Tim, in a tone of disappointment. “Is that all?” He had really fancied the colonel might have a love affair, and that it would be great fun to reveal it to the boys.

“Why, what business is it of yours, what he wanted?” inquired the woman.

“It ain’t any,” answered Tim. “Guess I’ll go now;” and he made his escape through the door.

“Oh, she didn’t tell me anything,” said Little Tim, as the boys surrounded him a moment later. “Said I could catch fish, though. How do you suppose she knew that?”

Mr. Bangs seemed much amused. “She’s a real witch,” he exclaimed. “Well, good-bye, boys. Come again next year.”

They said good-bye and started off.

“Say, Jack,” said Little Tim, as they walked along together, “that’s the fortune-teller that was down to Benton with the circus. Remember I told you we caught Witham coming out of the tent? Well, I asked her what he was there for, and it wasn’t anything at all. He was only hunting for some papers that somebody had hidden ”

“What’s that tell me about that?”

Henry Burns, who had been walking close by, but who had been not greatly interested up to this point, had suddenly interrupted. “What did Witham want?” he repeated.

Little Tim repeated the fortune-teller’s words.

Henry Burns, hurrying ahead to where the others were walking, caught John Ellison by an arm and drew him away. “Come back here a minute,” he said. “Here, Tim, tell John what the fortune-teller said about Witham.”

John Ellison, listening to Tim Reardon, grew pale and clenched his fist.

“That’s it,” he cried. “There are some other papers, don’t you suppose? Lawyer Estes said there might be; but they couldn’t find them, though they hunted through the mill. I just know there are some. Witham knew it, too. That’s what he was after. Tim, you’ve found out something big, I tell you. We’ve just got to get into that mill again and go through it. Don’t you say a word to anybody, Tim.”

Tim’s eyes opened wide with astonishment but he promised.

All through the work of striking and packing the two tents, and stowing the stuff into the wagon, Henry Burns and John Ellison discussed this new discovery; what it might mean and what use could be made of it. And all the way home, on the long, dusty road, they talked it over. They were late getting started, and it was eight o’clock when they turned in at the Ellison farm.

The mill had ceased grinding for two hours, and night had settled down. But, as they got out of the wagon, John Ellison called to Henry Burns and pointed over the hill toward the mill.

“Do you see?” he said softly, but in excited tones. “Do you see? That’s what I see night after night, sometimes as late as nine o’clock.”

There was somebody in the old mill, evidently, for the light as from a lantern was discernible now and again through one of the old, cobwebbed windows; a light that flickered fitfully first from one floor, then from another.

“It’s Witham,” said John Ellison. “He’s always in the mill now, early and late. I’ll bet he’s hunted through it a hundred times since he’s had it. It gets on his mind, I guess; for I’ve seen him come back down the road many a night, after the day’s work was over, and he’d had supper, and go through the rooms with the lantern.”

“Well,” said Henry Burns, quietly, “we’ll go through them, too. We’ll do it, some way.”