every foot of ground under this roof. You can see it by the way he
keeps straight on. Hugh, do you think it might be Nick?"

After all, it was only natural for Thad to jump to this conclusion,
because of the evil reputation enjoyed by the boy he mentioned.
Nick Lang had been the bully and the terror of Scranton for years.
There was seldom a prank played (from stealing fruit from neighboring
farmers, to painting old Dobbin, a stray nag accustomed to feeding
on the open lots, so that the ordinarily white horse resembled the
National flag, and created no end of astonishment as he stalked
around, prancing at a lively rate when the hot sun began to start
the turpentine to burning), but that everybody at once suspected
Nick of being the conspirator.

Possibly he may not have always been the chief offender; but give Dog
Tray a bad name and he gets the blame of everything that happens
calculated to outrage the respectability of the law-abiding community.

"I thought of him at first," replied Hugh, "but it strikes me that chap
isn't of Nick's build. You see his light leaves his figure pretty much
in the dark; for he's using it principally to show him the way, so he
won't stumble over any chair, and make no end of a row."

The two had been stealthily creeping forward all this while, and were,
therefore, gradually diminishing the distance separating them from
the bearer of the electric hand-torch. Thad had evidently been
consulting his memory concerning something, for presently he again
whispered in his chum's ear:

"Then mebbe it might be Leon Disney, Hugh. Seems to me that sneak