He remembered those
words, spoken in Tom's stolid way on the night of their quarrel. "_It's
kind of like a trail in your mind and I got to hit the right trail._" He
_had_ hit the right trail then and brought Roy to his senses, and now
again when that rude, selfish note cropped up to work mischief it was
Tom who knelt down there on the railroad tracks, seeking again for the
right trail.
"Here it is," he said at last, when he had closely examined and smelt
of a dark spot on one of the ties. "Lucky you let him clean the engine;
he must have been standing in the oil trough."
"Good he had his sneaks on, too," said Roy, stooping. "It's like a stamp
on a pound of butter."
It was not quite as clear as that, but if Pee-wee had prepared his
sneaks especially for making prints on wooden ties he could scarcely
have done better. In order to get at the main bearings of the engine he
had, with characteristic disregard, stood plunk in the copper drain
basin under the crank-case. The oil had undoubtedly softened the rubber
sole of his sneakers so that it held the clinging substance, and in some
cases it was possible to distinguish on the ties the half-obliterated
crisscross design of the rubber sole.
"Come on," said Tom, "this thing is a cinch."
"It's a shame to call it tracking," said Roy, regaining some measure of
his wonted spirits as they hurried along. "It's a blazed trail."
And so, indeed, it was while it lasted, but suddenly it ceased and the
boys paused, puzzled.
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