“Oh, you Delaware!”

“Come tell us that tale of the singing bird!”

“Looks pale; must have seen a haunt!”

“Got your goat with you?”

“Come join the young men at their council fire!”

Walter grinned at the good-natured chaff of a group of boys squatting in front of a shelter tent pitched on the shore of the lake.

“Where’s the fire?” he asked.

“What!” cried Tug Benson. “Is he coming among us with the eyes of a paleface?” He spread his hands above the ashes of a long dead fire as if warming them. “And here,” he added in an injured tone, “we’ve been sitting for an hour roasting that loon he heard last night, that he might feast with us. Now he doesn’t even see the fire!” He gave an exaggerated sniff. “He’s done to a turn.”

“Which?” asked Billy Buxby innocently. “Walt or the loon?” “Both,” said Spud Ely with conviction. “Say, Upton, tell us about that scrap.”

“Nothing to tell,” replied Walter.

“Modest, though mighty, as becomes a son of the Tortoise,” commented Tug. “Say, Walt, did he have light curly hair and a front tooth missing?”

“Now you mention it, I believe he did,” replied Walter.

“Pat Malone!” exclaimed Tug triumphantly. “Sure thing. Say, fellows, Pat’s been hanging ’round camp for the last three or four days; what do you suppose he’s after?”

“Looking for a chance to swipe something,” said Billy.

“Aw stow it, Billy! Pat’s tough all right, but that doesn’t make him a thief,” said Chip Harley.

“I saw Pat talking with Hal Harrison up on the Old Scraggy trail just at dusk the other night,” broke in Ned Peasely. “They seemed mighty ’fraid of being seen. Wonder what’s up?”

“Oh, probably Hal’s trying to impress on the natives a sense of his own importance and the power of the almighty dollar,” said Spud. “Cut it out, Spud,” advised Tug. “Hal’s all right. Some day he’ll forget he’s the son of a millionaire. He’s got good stuff in him.”

“Sure thing,” said Chip. “Say, did you know that he brought in another record fish this morning? Six-pound small-mouth bass. That’s what gets my goat. Here he is, a tenderfoot, and yet he’s putting it all over the fellows that have been here two or three years. He’s rolling up points for the Senecas to beat the band. Say, I’ll bet that Pat Malone has put him next to some secret fishing ground or new bait or something.”

“Speaking of angels——” said Billy.

Walter looked up with the others to see a boy of perhaps fifteen passing on the trail up from the lake. He wore the regulation camp dress, but there was something in his bearing, a suggestion of superiority, a hint of condescension in his curt nod to the group around the tent, that gave Walter the feeling that he considered himself a little above his companions. Yet, withal, there was something likable in his face, despite a rather weak mouth and the shifty glance of his eyes. Instinctively Walter felt that Tug was right, and that beneath the supercilious veneer there was the stuff of which men are made, submerged now by self-indulgence and the misfortune of being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, as Tug expressed it.

“Hear you’ve put another over on us. Say, Hal, put us wise to that private preserve of yours, will you?” called the irrepressible Billy.

“Do a little scouting and find one for yourself,” retorted Hal, passing on up the trail.

“I have it! We will do a little scouting. We’ll trail him ’til we find out where he gets those big fish. What do you say, fellows?”

“That we’ll do nothing of the kind.”

The words were spoken quietly, but with a note of authority and finality that admitted of no contradiction. The boys turned to find Woodhull in their midst. Unseen he had come up just in time to hear Billy’s last words. They all saluted the chief, and then Billy, who never was known to let the chance for an argument pass, took up the subject again.

“Why not, Louis?” he demanded. “I thought it was a Scout’s duty to always keep on the trail of an enemy.”

“Meaning whom?” asked Woodhull.

“Why, Harrison, of course. Isn’t he a Seneca, and aren’t the Senecas the enemies of the Delawares?”

“Wrong again, Billy,” responded the chief. “The Senecas are rivals, not enemies of the Delawares, and we are going to beat ’em to it in fair and open contest—if we can. But they are brother Scouts, members of Woodcraft Camp as we are. Just pin that in your hat. Of all contemptible beings the most contemptible is a spy, save in actual warfare. No, my son, if Hal has been smart enough to beat us all at locating the hiding-places of big fish he is entitled to the honors. Put your powers as a Scout to work and find the fish for yourself, my son; but no spying on fellow Scouts.

“Tug, suppose you take Upton out to the swimming raft and try him out. You know the Hurons drew a prize in Hampton, who came in last week. Billy, I’ve got a bit of surveying to do on the Little Knob trail, and I need a rod man. Are you on?” “You bet! you know I’d follow you to the North Pole, Louis,” replied Billy, rising with alacrity.

Tug and Walter started for their tights, while the others continued to sprawl lazily around the tent.

“The chief’s right,” said Spud meditatively. “It wouldn’t be a square deal to spy on Hal. Just the same I’d like to know where he gets those fish. You don’t suppose——” He broke off abruptly.

“You don’t suppose what?” asked Chip.

“Oh, nothin’!”

“Come, Spud, out with it! What don’t you suppose?”

Spud clasped his hands about his knees and gazed thoughtfully into the fireplace.

“What does Hal do with all his spending money?” he demanded abruptly.

Chip looked up, startled. “You don’t mean, Spud, that you think for a minute he——”

“No, I don’t,” Spud broke in. “I don’t believe there’s a fellow in camp low down mean enough to try to win points with things he’d bought. But why couldn’t he have hired some one to put him next—guide for him?”

The boys considered this in silence for a few minutes.

“Aw, forget it, Spud,” advised Chip. “Hal wouldn’t do that. He’s got us going, and we’re sore, that’s all. Let’s take a canoe and try for that big laker you lost the other day.”

“I’m with you,” replied Spud promptly. “Bet he don’t get away from me again!”

Meanwhile Walter and Tug had paddled out to the raft, where boys from both wigwams were enjoying a morning swim. Walter was a fair swimmer, but he soon found that Tug quite outclassed him. As a matter of fact Tug was the star swimmer of the tribe, and in the water was as much at home as a fish. He watched Walter critically for a few minutes.

“You’ll do best at long distance,” he decided. “We’ll put you in for the quarter mile. You’re rotten on the crawl, and the crawl’s the only thing for the hundred yards. You’ve got something to learn on that overhand, too. You fight the water too much. You don’t get in your full power, and when you try to hit it up you waste your strength. Here, let me show you!”

With a clean-cut dive Tug left the raft, and Walter watched with admiration, not unmixed with envy, the powerful yet easy overhand strokes that sent the swimmer through the water without apparent exertion, yet at a speed that made his own best efforts seem hopeless. Tug regained the raft, and Walter noted that he was breathing as easily as if he had not been in the water at all.

“Say, Tug, will you coach me?” he asked eagerly.

“Surest thing you ever knew! That’s what I’m here for,” was Tug’s hearty reply. “But you’ve got to keep at it every day. No soldiering, and, kid, no getting mad when I throw the hooks into you! If we can get even a third in the quarter we’ll pretty near break even with the Hurons. The Algonquins have only one man we’re really afraid of, and the Senecas don’t cut much ice in the water, but are all to the good on it.”

“Paddling?” asked Walter.

“Yep,” replied Tug. “They’ve got a great tandem team, and a four I’m afraid we can’t touch at all. And then you know they’ve got a long lead on points for fish, thanks to Harrison. By Jove, I should like to know where he gets those big fellows, and what bait he uses. He’s mum as an oyster.”

Just as they stepped into the canoe to paddle back to camp the notes of a bugle rang clear and full across the water.

“Hello!” exclaimed Tug, pausing to look over the camp. “That’s the ‘recall.’ Wonder what’s up. That means everybody report at once. Hit her up, kid!”

As soon as the canoe touched shore the boys sprang out and turned it bottom up on the beach. As they hurried up to headquarters boys were pouring in from all directions, on every face a look of wondering curiosity. The recall was sounded only in case of an emergency.

When the last straggler within sound of the bugle had hurried in, Dr. Merriam stepped from the office. His face was very grave as he studied the expectant faces turned toward him. An instant hush fell over the waiting boys.

“Scouts of Woodcraft Camp,” began the doctor slowly, and it seemed as if he measured each word as he spoke, “I have had the recall sounded because of a discovery made an hour since—a discovery unprecedented in the annals of Woodcraft Camp. It is that there is or has been a thief in our midst.” He paused for an instant while his keen eyes scanned the startled faces before him. Then with one of his rarely beautiful smiles he added, “But I do not believe that any member of this camp is guilty.”

Instantaneous relief rippled over the faces before him and the doctor, noting it, smiled again. Then once more his face grew grave and stern, as he continued:

“For some days little things have been missed around headquarters. That they were stolen we have not been willing to believe, preferring to think that they had been mislaid. But this morning occurred a loss which admits of no doubt that there has been a thief in camp. You all remember the little gold clasp pin in the shape of a Maltese cross, set with three small diamonds, which Mrs. Merriam always wears at her throat?”

The boys nodded. They would have been poor Scouts indeed had they not noticed the one bit of jewelry which “Mother” Merriam allowed herself in camp.

“This morning Mrs. Merriam laid the pin on the sill of the north window of her room. Five minutes later she went to get it, but it was not there. Nor was it on the ground outside or on the floor inside. The actual value is not great but, because of sentimental associations, the value is not to be computed in dollars and cents. To Mrs. Merriam that little pin is priceless. I have called you together to tell you of this loss, believing that there is not one among you but will gladly give of his time and best endeavor to discover the thief and secure if possible the return of Mrs. Merriam’s valued keepsake. I ask each one of you to report to me privately any suspicious circumstances he may be aware of or may discover. That is all.”

The boys at once broke into excited groups. That there could be a thief among them was inconceivable. Still, there had been few strangers in camp, two or three guides and a few lumber-jacks passing through, and all of these above suspicion. Chip Harley joined Walter and Tug, and the three walked on in silence. It was broken by Chip.

“Say, fellows,” said he, “you remember what was said about Pat Malone this morning? Well, he was in camp just afterward.”

“How do you know?” asked Tug.

“Saw him,” said Chip. “He came in while you fellows were swimming. Left a message for Tom Mulligan. When he left he took the trail up past headquarters.”

Tug and Walter considered this information soberly.

“Looks bad,” said Tug. “Shall you report to the big chief?”

“I don’t know,” replied Chip. “It’s suspicious, any way you look at it.”

“Don’t do it yet,” said Walter. “You haven’t got any real evidence, you know. And let’s not say anything about it to the other fellows. It does look mighty suspicious, but I don’t believe that a fellow who would take a licking and then get up and shake hands the way Pat did with me would steal. Let’s do a little scouting before we say anything. What’s the matter with us three working together on this thing?”

“Good!” agreed Tug. “Each night we’ll get together and report all clues discovered. Gee, but I’d like to find that pin for Mother Merriam!”

“You bet!” said Walter. “And I’d like to clear Pat, too,” he added to himself.

The three shook hands on the compact, and separated to look for clues. True to their agreement, they said nothing about Pat. But others had seen the sawmill boy in camp, and by night there was a pretty general conviction that Pat was the thief, so easy is it for mere suspicion to pose as truth. A few of the more hot-headed were for rounding Pat up the next day and forcing him to confess, but wiser council prevailed, and it was agreed that Pat should be left alone until real evidence against him was produced. After evening mess Chip, Walter and Tug met in a quiet corner to report.

“Well?” said Tug.

“Footprints,” said Chip sententiously. “Found ’em leaving the regular trail just north of the office, and pointing toward Mother Merriam’s window. Just about Pat’s size, they were. Prints of the hobnails in the right showed clearly, and three are missing on the ball. Sprinkled some dirt over the tracks so that no one else would find them. What did you find, Tug?”

“Nothin’, except that Pat went from here straight up to the Durant lumber camp,” replied Tug.

“And you, Walt?”

“Nothing but this,” said Walter, drawing the tail feather of a crow from his pocket. “Found it caught in the window screen.”

“Worse and more of it,” growled Tug. “Pat usually has a feather sticking in that old hat of his. Don’t you remember?”

“Yep,” responded Chip.

They sat in silence for a while, considering the evidence.

“Looks bad, doesn’t it?” said Chip gloomily.

“It sure does,” assented Walter, “but footprints and a feather are mighty small things on which to brand a fellow a thief. Let’s wait till we get something else before we say anything.” “Right-oh!” responded Tug, rising to stretch. “I’m going to turn in. Nine o’clock sharp at the raft to-morrow, Walt.”

“Sure!” replied Walter.

Then, with the sounding of “taps” the boys sought their bunks.