“You telegraph for me,” said Dick to the constable.  “I will pay the costs.”

“All right, Dick.  My, but old Rick is getting more grumpy every day!  If this railroad knows its business it will soon get another manager here,” was Gilbert Ponsberry’s comment, as he led the way to the telegraph office.

Here a telegram was prepared, addressed to the police officer on duty at the Middletown station, and giving a fair description of the thief.

The train would reach the city in exactly forty-five minutes; and as soon as the message had been sent, Dick, Darrel, and the constable went off on a tour of Oak Run and the vicinity.

Of course nothing was seen of the thief, and in an hour word came back from Middletown that he was not on the cars.

This was true, for the train had stopped at a way station, having broken something on the engine, and the thief had left, to walk the remainder of the distance to Middletown on foot.

It was not until nightfall that Dick returned to his uncle’s farmhouse.

Here he found that Sam and Tom had already arrived.  Tom was lying on the sofa in the sitting room, being cared for by his Aunt Martha, who was the best of nurses whenever occasion required.

“Didn’t find any trace of the villain?” queried Randolph Rover, with a sad shake of his head.  “Too bad!  Too bad!  And it was your father’s watch, too!”

“I never wanted to see Dick wear it,” put in Mrs. Rover.  “It was too fine for a boy.”

“Father told me to wear it, aunty.  He said it would remind me of him,” answered Dick, and he turned away, for something like a tear had welled up in his eye.

“There, there, Dick, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” cried his aunt hastily.  “I would give a good deal if you had your watch back.”

Supper was waiting, but Dick had no appetite, and ate but little.  Tom braced up sufficiently to take some toast and tea, and declared that he would be all right by morning and so he was.

“Here is a letter for Tom from Larry Colby,” cried Dick during the course, of the evening.

“I declare, I forgot all about it, Tom, until this minute.”

“I don’t blame you, Dick,” was the reply, with a sickly smile.  “You read it for me.  The light hurts my head,” and Tom closed his eyes to listen.

Larry Colby was a New York lad who in years gone by had been one of Tom’s chums.  The letter was just such a one as any boy might write to another, and need have no place here.  Yet one paragraph interested everybody in the sitting room: 

“Next week I am to pack my trunk and go to Putnam Hall Military Academy [wrote Larry Colby].  Father says it is a very fine military, school, and he has recommended it to your uncle.”

“Putnam Hall Military Academy!” mused Tom.  “I wonder where it is?”

“It is over in Seneca County, on Cayuga Lake,” replied Randolph Rover, and something like a smile appeared on his face.