A shadow lay over Woodcraft Camp. The routine of daily life went on as before, but there was something lacking. The fun-making was not spontaneous. There was no enthusiasm in work or play. The old time jollying ceased. The rivalry between the tribes seemed falling into hopeless apathy. Even Spud Ely’s success in temporarily wresting the fishing honors from Hal Harrison and the Senecas by landing a twelve-pound lake trout served to awaken no more than a passing interest.

Suspicion, the grimmest of all specters, strode back and forth through the camp. Whenever a group of boys came together it peered over their shoulders and with bony fingers choked back laughter and song and strangled the old freedom of speech. It sat at mess, and the chill of its presence was felt in the wigwams at night. Who had stolen Mother Merriam’s pin? Who? Who? Could it be that the thief was really one of their number?

For more than a week nothing was seen of Pat Malone. To many, hasty of judgment, eager to rid themselves of the specter, this was construed as evidence of guilt. But still the specter would not down. The strain was telling not only on the spirits but on the tempers of the boys. Under it they were becoming irritable, quick to take offense.

Every night Tug Benson, Chip Harley and Walter met to report progress, or, rather, lack of it. Finally, just a week after the sounding of the “recall,” Chip was sent on an errand to the Durant lumber camp. As soon as evening mess was over he signaled Tug and Walter to meet him back of the wood-pile. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes that belied the studied gloom of his face as he looked up to greet them.

“Well?” said Tug.

“It’s Pat, all right!” said Chip sententiously.

“Are you sure? Absolutely sure?” Tug and Walter cried together. “Sure as—as—sure as I be that skeeters bite,” replied Chip, slapping viciously at his neck.

“Did you find the pin?” asked Walter eagerly.

“Naw! You don’t suppose he’d be such a fool as to have it lying around in plain sight, do you?” Chip’s tone indicated his supreme disgust. “But,” he continued, “it’s a cinch that he took it just the same. What’d we better do about it?”

“How the deuce do we know, when you haven’t told us your story yet? Come, out with it, you tantalizing blockhead!” growled Tug impatiently.

Chip shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Well,” he began, “you know the big chief sent me over to the Durant camp with a message this afternoon. After I’d delivered it I thought I’d just look round a bit, and do a little scoutin’. Pat wasn’t there. Fact is, the whole gang was in the woods ’cept the boss and the cook. Got kind of chummy with the cook, and he opened up a nice little can of his own private troubles and poured ’em out for my special benefit. “Seems he ain’t got much use for boys, and for Pat Malone in particular. Nothin’ special, I guess, only Pat plays tricks on him and raids his cooky box pretty often. They’re good cookies, all right,” he added reminiscently.

“Well, I jollied him along,” continued Chip, “and went pokin’ ’round like I’d never seen a lumber camp before. Pretty soon I see a pair of spiked boots hanging on a nail. ‘What’ll you take for the boots, cookie?’ says I. Cookie grinned. ‘Them ain’t mine,’ says he. ‘They belong to that young rascal Pat Malone. I reckon money wouldn’t buy ’em of him. Sets as much store by ’em as if they was pure gold. Was give to him by one of the fellers over to your camp.’”

Tug looked up startled. “What’s that?” he asked sharply. “You don’t suppose—you—say, do you believe it could have been Hal Harrison?”

Chip grinned. “Sure thing,” said he. “Found his name in the top of one of ’em.”

Tug and Walter looked at each other blankly, while Chip went on with his tale. “When cookie wasn’t looking I just naturally examined those boots a little closer, and measured ’em with a bit of string. They’re just the size of those prints we found under Mother Merriam’s window, and there’s three nails missing from the soles of the right one!” he concluded dramatically. “Now what do you fellers think we’d better do?”

Tug sat down and idly began to throw chips. “Looks bad,” he ventured.

“Bad!” snorted Chip, “I call it open and shut, iron-bound, no-loophole evidence! Pat’s the thief, or I’ll eat my shirt.”

“Guess you’ll find Durant cookies better eating,” said Walter drily.

Chip looked a bit sheepish. Then he slipped a hand into a capacious pocket and brought forth three crisp brown discs. “They are pretty good,” he admitted as he passed one to each of the others. “Might as well admit that I followed Pat’s lead. Brought ’em along just to prove that I really was there, Walt’s such a doubter,” he explained ingenuously.

For a few minutes the boys munched the cookies in appreciative silence. When the last brown crumb had disappeared Chip returned to the subject.

“Well, Walt, what ought we to do?” he demanded.

“Nothing.”

Chip got up from the chopping block and dramatically planted himself in front of Walter. “Say, what’s chewing you, anyway?” he demanded. “You don’t mean to tell us that you still think Pat innocent!”

“I’m not going to think him guilty until there is some proof,” replied Walter doggedly.

“Proof!” Chip fairly yelped the word out. “Proof! Haven’t I given you proof enough? What more do you want?” Chip flung himself down on the chopping block in sheer disgust.

“It’s wholly circumstantial evidence, and—and——” Walter hesitated.

“And what?” demanded Chip. “Spit it out!”

“Why, the fact is——” Walter hesitated again.

“Come on! Come on! Out with it!” Tug broke in.

“Well, there is another pair of hobnailed boots of the same size in our own camp, and three nails are missing from the right one!”

Chip and Tug stared at him blankly. Then Tug gave vent to a long whistle of incredulity. “Say,” he demanded, “what kind of a bunco steer are you givin’ us, anyway? Say that over again, you sawed off pocket edition of Sherlock Holmes!”

Walter was somewhat nettled and he replied rather tartly, “I said that there is another pair of boots in camp that might have made those prints.”

“Whose are they?” Chip demanded.

Again Walter hesitated, and grew uncomfortably red in the face. “What is the honor of a Scout?” he asked abruptly. “Has one Scout any right to cast suspicion on the honor of another Scout? I don’t believe that the owner of this second pair of boots knows any more than we do about Mother Merriam’s pin, but if I should tell you who he is you couldn’t help but wonder, and wondering, that kind of wondering, leads to suspicion. You couldn’t help it. Until this thing is cleared up you couldn’t look that fellow straight in the face with quite the same feeling you do now. I didn’t mean to say anything about it, but I had to to show how little real evidence Pat’s boots afford. By the way, Chip, do you know just which nails are missing from Pat’s boot, and which three were lacking in those prints?”

Chip confessed that this was a detail he had wholly overlooked.

“Then that’s where we all fall down on the footprint clue,” said Walter. “Strikes me we’re blamed poor Scouts. The prints are gone now, and if we had both pairs of boots here what good would they do us? Without knowing which nails were missing in the prints we couldn’t tell which boots made ’em, and there you are! We’d simply be all the more suspicious of the owner of the second pair of boots.”

Tug arose and impulsively held out his hand. “Shake, old man! I for one don’t want to know who owns those boots. My, my, this business is bad enough as it is!” he said.

“Them’s my sentiments too,” Chip broke in. “It’s bad enough to suspect one fellow outside the camp, and I should hate awfully to have that kind of feeling about a brother Scout.”

Walter’s face cleared as the three shook hands. “I’m glad you fellows see it that way,” he said. “We leave matters right where they were then, do we?”

“Sure thing!” Tug spoke emphatically. “Mum’s the word. We’ll just keep up our quiet little hunt and say nothin’. Gee, but I would hate awfully to think that maybe some of the fellers thought I was a thief! Of course I’m naturally curious about that other pair of boots, but I wouldn’t listen now if you tried to tell me, for just as sure as little fishes have tails I’d get to thinkin’ about that feller in a way I wouldn’t want anybody to think of me. Funny about those boots of Pat’s, ain’t it? You don’t suppose Hal gave ’em to him to pay for—— Oh, rats! There it is! It’s with Hal just like it would be with the owner of that second pair of boots. We don’t like him. He’s licked us to a frazzle fishin’, and here we are suspectin’ he ain’t on the level. Let’s cut it out! Say, I’ve got an idea!”

“Phew! You don’t say! I wouldn’t have believed it of you, Tug,” drawled Chip. “Hold it down with both hands ’til Walter can identify it.”

Tug promptly back-heeled Chip and calmly sat on his head while that unfortunate helplessly thrashed on the ground and in smothered tones begged to be released.

“Think you can be respectful to your elders?” inquired Tug, holding his seat by pinning down both arms of his victim.

A smothered mumble was translated to mean assent, and Chip was released.

Tug proceeded to explain his idea. “You remember what Louis said to Billy the other day? Well, what’s the matter with us three hanging together to beat Hal at his own game? We all like fishin’, and there’s just as big fish in this little old lake as Hal has yanked out of it. If he can find ’em we can. We’ve been trustin’ too much to luck, same as the rest of the fellers do. My idea——”

Chip cleared his throat, and Tug turned to glare at his erstwhile victim. But that young gentleman looked so innocent as he inquired, “What’s your idea, Tug?” that the latter relaxed his belligerent attitude and resumed.

“My idea is that we read up about the different kinds of fish around here, their habits, what they eat, when they feed, the kind of bottom they like best and all that sort of thing. The big chief’s got a lot of books about fish, and he’ll be tickled silly to have us read ’em. Then we’ll pump Big Jim and Tom Mulligan, and do some real scoutin’—for fish instead of thieves. If Hal has anything on us then we’ll just naturally take off our hats to him and give him the high sign.”

“Bully!” cried Walter. “We’ve got just time before ‘taps’ to read up a little on small-mouth black bass, and we’ll get away at daybreak to-morrow mornin’ for our first scoutin’. I’ll go right up t’ the big chief’s and borrow the book. Tug, you go hunt up Louis and get permission for the three of us to take a canoe and leave before mess, and, Chip, you hustle over and bamboozle cookie into puttin’ up a lunch for us.”

The others agreed, and the three boys separated on their several errands. As they disappeared in the gathering dusk a rough unkempt figure crawled from behind the wood-pile and watched them, an ugly frown darkening his dirty but usually good-natured face. “Yez think Oi’m a thafe, do yez?” he growled. “Oi don’t know what yez think Oi shtole, fer Oi didn’t get here in toime ter hear ut all, but if Oi iver get yez alone Oi’ll make yez chaw thim wurrds and shwaller thim. Oi’ll—Oi’ll——” He shook a grimy fist at the retreating figures. His eyes rested a moment on Walter’s square, sturdy figure and he seemed to hear again the quiet voice: “I’m not going to think him guilty ’til there’s some proof.”

Gradually his face softened. “Thot bye’s all roight. He’s sound timber, he is,” he muttered.

He slipped into the blackness of the forest and presently hit the Durant trail. For the most part his thoughts were as black as the shadows around him.

“Thafe, is ut?” he muttered to himself. “Oi guess ut ain’t healthy fer the loikes av me around thot camp. What roight have th’ loikes av thim ter be callin’ me a thafe jist because Oi’m poor an’ live in the woods? What roight have they to be callin’ me a thafe, an’ me wid no chance ter say a wurrd? What show’s a bye loike me got, anyway? Whin thot Walt bye licked me he said Oi ought ter be a Bye Scout, an’ Oi’d begun ter think ut must be somethin’ foine. But if this is the way they be afther doin’, callin’ a bye a thafe widout him iver knowin’ what’s been shtole, Oi want nothin’ ter do at all, at all wid Bye Scouts. Oi wonder what thot honor bus’ness is thot Walt bye talked so much about. Oi’ll pump thot bye wid his pockets full av rocks an’ see what he knows about ut.”

Abruptly his thoughts reverted to the fishing pact he had overheard and slowly a grin crept among the freckles. “Goin’ ter bate Harrison, be yez?” He slipped a hand into a pants pocket and clinked some loose change there. “Oi wonder now, have yez got the price? Oi guess yez don’t know what yez be up aginst. Jist the same Oi’d loike thot Walt bye ter win out.”

A sudden thought struck him. “Oi wonder now wud he——” He took a silver dollar from his pocket and held it up so that a ray from the rising moon was thrown up from it in a bright gleam. “No,” he said, “no, Oi don’t belave he wud, though why not Oi don’t see at all, at all.” He rapidly strode forward to the bunkhouse, and for once forgot to play a good-night trick on the long-suffering cook.

The moon crept higher and higher. It filtered through the great forest and touched the white birches with ghostly gleam. It looked down upon a thousand tragedies among the little people of the night. It bathed the two camps in silvery light, and all unconscious of the greater tragedy in the hearts of men, it caressed into points of living flame the tiny diamonds in Mother Merriam’s pin.

But there was no one there to see, and for a few hours even the specter in the wigwams slept.