The policeman reddened and stood up to his full six-foot-two. "Look,
mister--what's your name?"

The elderly man shrank back, as if suspecting that the trooper's
patience might have been tried too far. "Ben Smith," he mumbled.

"Okay, Mr. Smith, you get a rope or something else to pull this boy out.
And fast!"

Ben Smith gulped on his chewing tobacco and hurried off. A minute or so
later he returned with a length of clothesline. The trooper lowered it
into the well and Bud was soon climbing out, looking like a drenched
rat.

"Sorry, son," Smith said apologetically. "Guess I should have warned
ye."

Bud chuckled good-naturedly. "It's all right," he said. "It was my own
fault for not watching where I was going. Besides, you can't blame an
American for not liking the idea of having his home searched."

The old man chuckled too and flashed a wary eye at the trooper. "I'll go
get ye a towel to dry off with," he told Bud.

Meanwhile, Tom was investigating a house down the road with another
state trooper. The owner, a paunchy unshaven bachelor named Pete Latty,
and his seventeen-year-old nephew accompanied them to the basement.

A naked light bulb, hanging from the ceiling, revealed an ancient
furnace, and an accumulation of junk. Most of it was covered with dust,