Nevertheless, Ruth and Tom were very circumspect.  They crept behind the toolshed and looked all about to make sure that nobody was watching.  There was no light in the bunkhouse or in the cook’s cabin.

Although the toolshed was so carefully locked, Ruth knew that the window could be opened.  Tom quickly slipped back the sash, and then dived into the dark interior of the place, head first.

The moment he was on his feet, however, he drew from his pocket the electric spotlight he had supplied himself with, and flashed the ray about the shed.

“Good! here’s either one you want—­pickax or mattock,” were the words he whispered to Ruth.

“Which do you suppose he would like best?”

“A mattock is more practical, I believe,” said Tom. “‘Maddox,’ they call it.  We had a fellow working for us once who called it a ‘mad-ax.’  It has a broad blade and can be used to chop as well as dig.”

“Never mind giving a lecture on it,” laughed Ruth, very softly, “hand it out.”

Tom chuckled and did as he was bid.  In a minute he was with her and picked up the heavy implement.

“I hope they don’t come hunting for us,” said the girl of the Red Mill, breathlessly.

“We must take that risk.  Come on, Ruth.  Or do you want me to take it down to the brookside alone?”

“I want to go along, too.  Oh, dear!  I do hope he will find it.”

“I have another cracker box full of food for him,” said Tom.  “I reckon he will be on the lookout for the pick, so he’ll find the food, too.”

After a good deal of climbing, they reached the flat rock by the brookside where Jerry Sheming had requested Ruth to leave the mattock.  There was no sign of the fugitive about.  Ruth did not tell Tom where the mouth of the secret tunnel lay—­nor did Tom ask for information.

As they hurried back, mounting the ridge that separated the lodge and its outbuildings from the middle of the island, Ruth, looking back, suddenly grabbed Tom’s hand.

“See! see there!” she cried.

Tom looked in the direction to which she pointed.  The stars gave light enough for them to see miles across the ice.  Several black figures were hurrying toward the western end of the island from the direction of the mainland—­the southern shore of the lake.

“Who do you suppose those men are?” asked Ruth, faintly.

Tom shook his head slowly.  “I expect it’s Lem Daggett, the constable, and others to hunt for poor Jerry.  I feel almost sure that the man in the lead is Daggett.”

“Isn’t that mean?” exclaimed Ruth, her voice shaking.

“It is.  But I don’t believe they will find Jerry very easily.”

Just the same, Ruth was not to be comforted.  She was very quiet all the rest of the evening.  Her absence, and Tom’s, had not been noticed.  The crowd went to bed before eleven, having spent a most delightful Christmas Eve.