all over the map. So that's what we want to look for--a
foundation of any kind or the least sign of a building. As soon as we're
down a bit farther we'll spread out and hunt systematically. It may be
clear on the other side of the hill, but at least we'll have something
definite to look for."

"I'll bet it's on this side," said Dale Tompkins, suddenly. "In the
old days they didn't have many roads and did most of their traveling by
water, so I should think-- Oh, shucks! I forgot the smelter would be
near the mine and that might be anywhere."

"It might," agreed Ranny; "but it won't do any harm to try this side
first."

Full of enthusiasm, they hurried down the slope, and when the steepest
part was over they spread out in a line about twenty feet apart. In this
formation they moved forward, keeping a sharp lookout for the slightest
sign that might help them in the search.

They moved slowly forward through the forest, the fascination of the hunt
gripping them more and more strongly. The sense of emulation, always
keen with a crowd of boys, was intensified by the belief that, thanks
to Ranny, they had just a little better chance of success than any of
the others. The object of their search, too, stirred the imagination.
There was a glamour of mystery about it which placed the whole thing in a
different class from the games that they ordinarily played.

But little by little, as they found only the same monotonous succession
of rocks and trees and tangled undergrowth, Dale's mind began to dwell on
the growing probability that they might not find the mine after all.
Over an hour of close search had failed to reveal any trace of the
ruined smelter. The ground on the river side of the hill had been
thoroughly gone over, and they were now making their way inland, keeping
well in toward the slope, and even spreading out a little on it. Without
actually running into any of the other searching-parties, they had
twice heard voices farther up the hill. The second time, in fact, these
were so near that Dale could distinguish the familiar tones of Wesley
Becker, and it was while peering curiously through the trees in that
direction that he tripped over an obstruction and fell headlong, bruising
his shin and twisting one wrist painfully.

"You want to look out for those feet of yours, Tommy," laughed Frank
Sanson, from the right. "They're awful things to trip over."

Usually quick enough with a retort, Tompkins made no answer. H