house set in the midst of the dark fir trees, like some residence in a cemetery, came to him as the memory of a bad dream.
"Where are you going now?" asked his father, as Dick started to leave the private office.
"I thought I'd take a ride with some of the boys in my motor boat. I haven't been out for some time."
"All right, only be careful."
"I will, dad. Good-bye."
Dick stopped, on his way home, and called for Bricktop, Frank Bender and Walter Mead, inviting them to go for a ride in his trim little craft, which was in the boat house on Lake Dunkirk.
"Let's take our lunch and stay the rest of the day," suggested Bricktop. "It's too fine out doors to be around the house."
"Good idea," assented Dick. "I'll have our cook put us up a basket of stuff."
The eyes of the other boys glistened, for they knew from experience the good things that came from the Hamilton kitchen, and they had visions of cold chicken and turkey, fine cakes and big, thick, juicy pies.
As Dick and his friends entered the side yard, they saw, standing on the driveway, a rather dilapidated wagon, drawn by a very bony horse. In the wagon was something covered with a sheet, while on the seat sat a grizzled, dried-up sort of a man, with a little bunch of whiskers on his chin.
