very rough, but at one spot they found the remains of a village—two houses of logs and half a dozen thatched huts. The houses and huts were bare, and nothing of interest was to be found around the remains of half a dozen campfires.
"This shows that somebody lived here once upon a time," observed Phil. "But it couldn't have been much of a population."
"Can't tell as to thet," came from the old sailor. "These natives live pretty thick sometimes, ten or a dozen in one hut and a good many live right out under the trees."
Dave and Roger had passed into one of the deserted log houses, and the country youth struck a match, that they might see around a little better. Somewhat to their astonishment, they saw pinned up on a wall a sheet of water-stained brown wrapping paper, upon which was drawn something of a map, with a heavy cross where two lines met.
"Here's a discovery!" cried Dave. "Wonder what this map was for?"
The others came in, and a minute later a torch was lit, and all examined the map with care. Then Roger uttered a cry:
"Dave, look there!" and the senator's son pointed to one corner of the map. In faint letters was the written name:
Dunston A. Porter.
