Speaking of mystery, could anything be stranger, or harder
to explain, than what happened to poor Hazelton?"
"There _was_ mystery for you!" nodded Mr. Prenter. "Have you any ideas
whatever on the subject of Hazelton's disappearance?"
"Not the slightest," groaned Tom. "I know all the indications are that he
has been killed, and I ought to believe that such is the case. But I
simply won't believe it. Why, if he were killed, what became of the body?"
"It's a puzzle," sighed Mr. Prenter.
They were now nearing the land end of the breakwater wall. Mr. Bascomb
overtook them. Together the three strolled out along the wall, halting
frequently, to observe what the men were doing. It was their plan to keep
on until they came to the scene of the two explosions of the night before.
"Just what are you doing here?" asked Mr. Bascomb, stopping and pointing to
a gang of men at work on a scow moored against the wall.
"I can tell you, after a fashion, sir," Reade answered. "Yet this was a
part of Hazelton's performance. He had charge here, and knew ever so much
about it. Poor old Harry!"
Behind them, at the beginning of the wall, a long, loud whistle sounded.
In a moment fully a hundred of the workmen stood up, waved their caps and
cheered as though they had gone mad.
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