and unostentatiously. They got to Hampton late that afternoon.

"What's the first thing to be done?" asked Mr. Damon as they walked up
from the station, where they were almost the only persons who alighted
from the train.

"Go to the hotel," decided Tom. "There's only one, I was told, so
there's not much choice."

Hampton was a quiet little country town of about five thousand
inhabitants, and Tom soon learned the address of Mr. Bentley, Andy's
uncle, from the hotel clerk.

"What business is Mr. Bentley in?" asked Tom, for he wanted to learn all
he could without inquiring of persons who might question his motives.

"Oh, he's retired," said the clerk. "He lives on the interest of his
money. But of late he's been erecting some sort of a building on his
back lot, like a big shed, and folks are sort of wondering what he's
doing in it. Keeps mighty secret about it. He's got a young fellow
helping him."

"Has he got red hair?" asked Tom, while his heart beat strangely fast.

"Who? Mr. Bentley? No. His hair's black."

"I mean the young fellow."

"Oh! his? Yes, his is red. He's a nephew, or some relation to Mr.
Bentley. I did hear his name, but I've forgotten it. Sandy, or Andy, or