They emerged into the road at North Bridgeboro where other scouts were already straggling after their fruitless quest. None of the parties had anything to report except that they were tired. Pee-wee reported, also, that he was hungry. They gathered on the dark platform of the little North Bridgeboro station, considering what to do next.

Across the road from the station were the country store, the grain and feed yard, and several other stores and buildings, locked and in darkness. In all that rural solitude only one bright spot was to be seen, the dirty stained-glass windows of Hamburger Mike’s “eats” wagon.

“Let’s go over and get some pie and coffee,” one of the disheartened searchers suggested.

“Let’s follow the road back to town,” another proposed.

Some who did not care to regale themselves thought it would be well to do that in the forlorn hope that some clew or information might come to them along the road. Since they had no clew, one way was as good as another.

Roy, Pee-wee, Connie and several others decided to get something to eat at Mike’s before returning through the woods, where they would make a supplementary search. What else could they do? The whole thing seemed so hopeless. It was in Hamburger Mike’s that Pee-wee’s party encountered Toby Ralston.

Toby lived in North Bridgeboro. He was a quiet, easy-going, country boy, familiar in the thoroughfare of the larger town some two or three miles below; one of those boys who seemed never to go home, notwithstanding that he was not in the least adventurous or wayward. He was the kind of boy (and there are many such) who attaches himself to some place of doubtful interest and makes it his accustomed headquarters.

Now and then, a boy is found who likes to hang out in a garage, or perhaps at a fire house, and identify himself with the place as a cat does. Usually he renders much gratuitous service for no comprehensible reason. Such boys may be said to have the local habit.

Toby Ralston was one of those boys. Why he had never joined the scouts is an interesting question. The scene of his altogether innocent lounging was Hamburger Mike’s lunch wagon. Hamburger Mike never closed up. Trains might come and trains might go, the stores might close, the villagers go to bed, the neighborhood of the station become a deserted wilderness; but the light always burned in the dirty stained-glass windows of Hamburger Mike’s lunch wagon. Surely, on the day of judgment, Hamburger Mike would be the last to turn out his lights.

It is not on record that Mike ever gave Toby Ralston a cent for helping to wash dishes and drawing coffee out of his nickel cylinders, or putting new menu cards in the greasy menu card frame. But Toby did these things every day and usually until midnight. And while he was thus engaged his side partner, Robin Hood, waited patiently for him.

Robin Hood was a magnificent police dog. His noble posture as he sat in the dingy place made the lunch wagon look squalid and mundane enough. Robin Hood disdained the place with the disdain of a true aristocrat. It was perfectly evident that he did not approve of his young master’s attachment to this greasy, smoky, stuffy emporium. Hour in and hour out, he would lie waiting patiently, and when his lord went forth, he would slowly rise, stretch his legs and go too.

Robin Hood’s gray wolfish hair and wild eyes and upright ears were familiar on the streets of Bridgeboro and the staring admiration which he aroused seemed a matter of no concern to him whatever. He was oblivious to every one but Toby. He received petting from others as if it bored him; and occasionally, when it was excessive, he showed resentment.

He paid not the slightest attention to these scouts as they entered and lined up on the row of revolving stools before the greasy counter.

“Here’s your chance to join the scouts, Toby,” said Connie Bennett. “There’s a vacancy in the animal cracker’s patrol.”

“What’s up?” Toby asked, as he slid a plate of pie along the counter so that it came to a stop directly before Connie. “Want coffee—you fellows?”

Hamburger Mike himself waited on the others, then went back to his corner and resumed the reading of a newspaper.

“Here’s your chance,” repeated Connie. “Do you know what brings us up here this late? You know Margie Garrison, don’t you? Red-headed? She hasn’t been seen since four o’clock this afternoon—lost. We’ve been combing the woods for her. Nothing doing. You’re always saying you’re going to join and you never do—gee williger, this coffee’s hot. She was seen in Westover’s field this afternoon and nobody saw her after that. Bring Robin Hood along and we’ll trail her; what d’you say? Say you’ll join the scouts and we’ll keep the job in the family. If we find her, won’t it be some tall sensation?”

“Robin Hood could never trail her,” said Roy, drinking coffee.

“Oh, is that so?” Toby sneered.

“Yes, that’s so,” said Westy Martin.

“Now, you tell one,” said Toby, turning to Pee-wee.

It was half a minute before Pee-wee was able sufficiently to get the upper hand of the pie he was eating to speak coherently. But he was able to think meanwhile. And a great light suddenly burst upon him. What a glorious acquisition to his patrol Toby and this magnificent dog would be. He had heard about dogs tracking fugitives. He had seen them thus employed in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. He had seen them in the movies. But the idea of a dog attached to his own patrol, leading the way to a poor, little lost girl in the dead of night—this was something beyond the range of his fondest dreams. Here would be adventure and glory. That was some inspiration of Connie’s, he thought.

When he was able to speak it was Roy, who sat next to him, whom he addressed. His conscience may have troubled him a little, for he spoke in an undertone. Roy, despite his habit of victimizing Pee-wee with unholy banter, was after all his friend—his closest friend.

“Do you mean—do you really think he won’t—that when it comes down to it he won’t join?”

“Who, Arabella?”

“Do you mean it?”

“Good night, kid, have some sense on your birthday. Why didn’t he come with us if he was willing to be one of us? What did he do? Turned around and walked home. There you are; what more do you want?”

Pee-wee was thoughtful. As he could not decide what he wanted to do or say, he fell back on doing something which he was absolutely positive he wanted to do. He bespoke two sugar crullers with which to finish his coffee.

And meanwhile, the talk went on.