No one paid any attention, and for that Bud was rather thankful; he did not want the Little Lost fellows to think that perhaps he had done something which he knew would hang him if it were discovered, which, he decided, was the mildest interpretation a keen observer would be apt to make of Hen's behavior.
When he went out, Hen was at his heels, trying to say something in his futile, tongue-tied gobble.

Bud stopped and looked at him tolerantly.
"Hen, It's no use--you might as well be talking Chinese, for all I know.

If it's important, write it down or I'll never know what's on your mind." He pulled a note-book and a pencil from his vest-pocket and gave them to Hen, who looked at him dumbly, worked his Adam's apple violently and retreated to his horse, fumbled the mail which was tied in the bottom of a flour sack for safe keeping, sought a sheltered place where he could sit down, remained there a few minutes, and then returned to his horse He beckoned to Bud, who was watching him curiously; and when Bud went over to him said something unintelligible and handed back the note-book, motioning for caution when Bud would have opened the book at once.
So Bud thanked him gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes, and waited until Hen had gone and he was alone before he read the message.

It was mysterious enough, certainly.

Hen had written in a fine, cramped, uneven hand: "You bee carful.