Nobody had seen them for over a week—­nobody knew anything of a newly-painted red wagon.

It seemed probable, Bart theorized, that if they had made for hiding in any of their familiar woodland haunts, they had reached the same by driving through Millville before daylight, and when nobody was astir.

Bart finally found a woodcutter who knew where the Tollivers had had their camping place the week previous.  He described the spot and Bart was soon there—­a secluded gully about two miles from town.

The place showed evidences of having been used as a camp, but not recently, and Bart went on a general blind hunt.

He traversed the woods for miles, both sides of a dried up rivercourse, and inquired at farmhouses and of occasional pedestrians he met.

It was all of no avail.  At three o’clock in the afternoon, tired, bramble-torn and a little discouraged, he sat down by the roadside to rest and think.  He began to censure himself for taking the independent course he had pursued.

“I should have telegraphed the company the circumstances of the burglary, and put the matter in the hands of the Pleasantville police,” he reflected.  “If the trunk had belonged to anybody except Mrs. Colonel Harrington, I would have done so at once.  Somebody coming!” he interrupted his soliloquy, as he caught a vague movement through the shrubbery where the road curved.

“No—­it’s only a dog.”

The animal came into view going a straight, fast course, its head drooping, a broken rope trailing from its neck.

Bart suddenly sprang to his feet, for, studying the animal more closely, something familiar presented itself and he ran out into the middle of the road.

“Come here—­good fellow!” he hailed coaxingly, as the animal approached.

But with a slight growl, and eyeing him suspiciously, it made a detour in the road, passing him.

“Lem Wacker’s dog—­I am sure of that!” explained Bart, naturally excited.  “Come, old fellow—­here! here! what is his name?  I’ve got it—­Christmas.  Come here, Christmas!”

The dog halted suddenly, faced about, and stared at Bart.

Then, when he repeated the name, it sank to its haunches panting, and, head on one side, regarded him inquiringly.

The animal was a big half-breed mastiff and shepherd dog that Lem Wacker had introduced to his railroad friends with great unction, one Christmas day.

He had claimed it to be a gift from a friend just returned from Europe, who had brought over the famous litter of pups of which it was one.

Wacker had estimated its value at five hundred dollars.  Next day he cut the price in half.  New Year’s day, being hard up, he confidentially offered to sell it for five dollars.

After that it went begging for fifty cents and trade, and no takers.  Lem kicked the poor animal around as “an ornery, no-good brute,” and had to keep it tied up on his own premises all of the time to evade paying for a license tag.