Dick Prescott found himself obliged to turn his eyes away.  It was altogether too pitiful, the look in old Reuben Hinman’s shriveled face.  In his misery the small, stooped peddler looked still smaller and more bent.

Tom soon came along, carrying a lantern and followed by Dave, the latter yawning every step of the way.

“Now, which way are we going to look first?” Reade inquired.

“I’ve been thinking that over,” Dick replied.  “It seems to me that the sanest course will be to start right at the scene of the robbery.  From there we may get a clue that we can follow somewhere.”

“Yes, that’s as good a course as any,” nodded Darrin, who had received some of the particulars of the affair from Reade.

So the three high school boys started off down the road together, old Reuben Hinman trudging tirelessly along with them, acting like a man in a trance.

At last they came to the old, red wagon.  The tethered horse, disturbed, rose to its feet.

“Now, the rest of you keep away,” requested young Prescott, “until I’ve had time to look all around the wagon with the lantern.  I want to see if I can discover any footprints that will help.”

For a considerable radius around the wagon the high school athlete scanned the ground.  He could find no footprints, other than those of Reuben Hinman, and the fresher ones made by himself.

“Nothing doing in the footprint line, boys,” Dick called at last.  “Now, come along and we’ll search the wagon.”

“Let me have the first chance,” begged Dave, taking the lantern.

Reuben Hinman showed where he had slept on the pile of rags, but this was hardly necessary, the impression made by his slight body being still visible.

Dave began to rummage.  At last he got down into the body of the wagon.  With the rays of the lantern thus concealed, the other three stood in darkness.

“Hooray!” gasped Dave at last.  Then rising, leaning over the side of the wagon, he called: 

“Mr. Hinman, I’ve found a wallet, with a lot of greenbacks inside.  How much I don’t know.  Please count it and see if all the money is there intact.”

With an inarticulate cry the old peddler seized the wallet that was handed down to him.  He shook like a leaf as Tom held the lantern for him to count the money.  Now that the strain was over, Mr. Hinman’s legs became suddenly too weak to support him.  He sank to the ground, Tom squatting close so that the lantern’s rays would fall where they would be most useful.  Thus the old peddler counted his money with trembling fingers.

“Where did you find the wallet?” young Prescott asked Darrin.

“Up against the side of the wagon, under a partly tilted, upsidedown feed-pail,” Dave answered.  “I can understand why Mr. Hinman didn’t find it.  He was too much upset—–­too nervous, and it certainly didn’t look like a likely place.”