had been taken to blind the trail which wound and zigzagged down the steep descent. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Connie heard the sound of running water, and the next moment, came abruptly upon the bank of a narrow stream.
At the foot of the trail was a broad, flat rock that evidently did service as a wharf, for littered about were bits of rope, a broken boat-pole, or two, and the staves and hoops of several casks, probably the result of a mishap in landing. The boy's eyes sparkled with pride, he had tracked the gang of whisky-runners to their lair, and now all that remained was to summon McKeever and gather them in. He turned to retrace his steps, then suddenly paused, tense as a pointer—listening. Yes, there it was again, and apparently but a short distance down stream—the unmistakable sound of voices! Like a shadow the boy slipped into the underbrush beside the trail and crawled beneath a low killikinick bush that had just burst into full leaf. Small as he was, at that moment Connie Morgan wished himself smaller, and watched with envy a thick black beetle burrow from sight beneath a piece of bark. The voices were close beside him and, peering through his screen of
