Whistler stopped talking to a possible candidate for the blue uniform of
the Navy, and looked after this stranger.

"Who is he?" he asked.

"That's Blake. Works in our laboratory. Nice fellow," was the reply.

"Oh! I didn't know but he was one of the men guarding the dam," Whistler
murmured.

"Shucks! there aren't any guards up there. There are soldiers here at
the factories, though."

"Is that so?" questioned Whistler. "Where's he been, do you suppose?"

"Who? Blake?"

"That man," said young Morgan grimly.

"Oh, he's a bug on natural history, or the like. Always tapping rocks
with a hammer, or hunting specimens, or botanizing. Great chap. Hasn't
been here in Elmvale long. But everybody likes him."

Phil made no further comment aloud, but to himself he said:

"He wasn't botanizing through that field-glass; or knocking specimens
off of rocks. His interest was centered on the face of the dam. I wonder
why?"

For the military looking man, called Blake, was the individual he and