ht now."

And she offered her plump hand, which was cordially shaken as the boys
explained more about their folks, then added:

"My name now is Ewing. I'm known as the Widow Ewing round here. My
husband has been dead three years or so. Before that, in Lannington, I
was a McKnight. One of my brothers runs a garage there. Know him?"

"Well, rather! Hey, Phil? We got this car mainly through his aid.
McKnight & Wilder--they're some punkins when it comes to automobiles!"

After this all was plain sailing for the boys. Mrs. Ewing insisted that
they should remain until the morrow.

"Won't cost you much. We'll cut the regular bill in half, for you're
home folks, aren't you?"

And it may be said that she had her way. The Big Six was put in the
hotel garage and the boys were made comfortable in two adjoining rooms;
and in the morning even Phil was astonished at the exceedingly small
bill which they had to pay. He could only thank the comely widow, who
laughed it off with:

"If you boys are simply on a vacation trip, you're bound to spend more
than you think you will. I'd gladly keep you for nothing, but times are
hard and I have to make some charge."

Cautious inquiries by Phil resulted in learning that there had been, and
still might be further on an old inn of the pre-railroad days. But it
was off the main road, in the roughest, heaviest wooded section,
somewhere about eight or ten miles off to the east. That region, it
appeared, was poor, swampy, and so inferior to other land lying all
about that hardly anyone lived there, even though in the midst of a
thickly settled country.

In the privacy of their rooms the four lads concluded that they would
say nothing directly referring to the railroad robbery or the hiding of
supposed treasure. They were so near the scene that any revival of that
now old-time tragedy might cause annoying inquisitiveness even if
nothing more resulted.

After breakfast, while the boys were making a few purchases and taking
on a generous supply of gasoline, they learned from Mrs. Ewing that "Dan
and Nan, with their Daddy, old Pat Feeney," had just gone by.

"And who are they?" queried Phil carelessly, though with a shrewd
suspicion in his mind at the time.

"Oh, he's an Irishman and lives three or four miles from here on the
edge of some marshland where he pretends to farm. But I guess the most
of his farming consists in cutting the marsh-grass during the summer and
selling it for hay to th