“I didn’t tell you all I’m going to do,” said Pee-wee darkly. “I didn’t tell you all the plans I have.”

This rather startling pronouncement prompted Emerson to say, “You’d better tell me the worst.”

“You’ll see,” said Pee-wee.

On arriving at Lanky Betts’ deserted shack, Emerson was somewhat caught by the spirit of their adventure. Pee-wee had at least brought him to a good waiting place. The rough, little refreshment stand had that forlorn look which all such roadside dispensaries have during the closed season. But the spirit of the frankfurter haunted it and it soon became evident to the patient Emerson that here Pee-wee was on familiar ground.

“Maybe you didn’t know I was here last Saturday,” said Pee-wee. “I was here with Lanky when he brought his stove and a lot of things and I helped him to bring them. Do you see that can? That’s got red paint in it so as he can paint his signs. Do you know why he uses red paint?”

“So he can paint his signs,” said Emerson.

“He paints ’em in red so everybody’ll know the frankfurters are hot; gee whiz, he knows how to make you hungry, that feller does.”

“He’s made me hungry already,” said Emerson.

“Are you hungry?”

“I think it makes you hungry being out in the chill air, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Pee-wee; “gee whiz, I’m always hungry. But don’t you care, because afterwards we’ll get something to eat. Do you know what I’m going to do? Now you’ll see all the ideas I had. I’m going to paint the word Danger on a board, good and big, in red letters. See, I got my flashlight to work by; a scout has to remember things. So hurry up, you open the can while I get a board.”

There is reality in action. And such desperate action as Pee-wee’s was bound to be convincing.

Even the quiet Emerson could not fail to be captivated by the situation, and all of Pee-wee’s frantic preparations for his epoch-making coup had the true ring of adventure. It was not like sitting home talking about catching bandits. Here they were in a little, deserted, rough board shack on the outskirts of town, bordering the likeliest exit from the metropolitan area. And this within ten or fifteen minutes of the sensational appeal broadcasted from station O.U.J., New York.

Surely, Emerson felt bound to acknowledge, it was not at all unlikely that the gypsies in the stolen car might pass here, and if he and Pee-wee could but stop them a great triumph would be theirs. A great triumph was Pee-wee’s already, for his enthusiasm and concentrated efforts proved contagious. Picking up an old rusty knife, Emerson proceeded to dig a hole in the top of the can of red paint while Pee-wee hauled forth an old board which was part of the detachable architecture of the shack.

“Now while I paint Danger on the board,” said Pee-wee excitedly, “you take that old chair and stand it in the middle of the road and then we’ll stand the board against the back of the chair.”

Within five minutes Lanky Betts’ rickety old kitchen chair in which he was wont to sit tilted back against the shack waiting for trade was cast in the heroic role of easel for a board on which the arresting word Danger was painted in huge red letters. So liberally had the paint been used in Pee-wee’s frantic haste that the letters had pendants of dripping red below them, imparting an artistic effect to Pee-wee’s handiwork.

But the whole thing looked like business and the general effect of something impending was heightened by the appearance of Pee-wee himself lurking in the doorway of the shack clutching in one hand the rusty knife, dripping red, with which Emerson had opened the paint can, and in his other hand another weapon equally dangerous, which he had rescued from a grocery box under the counter. This was an ice-pick used in the good old summer-time to reduce the ice to fragments in the genial freezers containing chocolate, vanilla and raspberry cream. But now it was to be used for a purpose less kindly.

“Now I’ll tell you the way we’ll do,” said Pee-wee. “We’ll sit inside here all quiet like and every car that stops we’ll see if it’s a Hunkajunk six, and if it is and it’s got gypsies in it, I’m going to sneak around in back of it and jab this ice-pick into one of the rear tires and then run. While I’m doing that—do you see that house up off the road? There’s no light in it but you can see it.”

“I see it,” said Emerson.

“As soon as I sneak around in back of the car you run up to that house for all you’re worth and ring the bell and bang on the door and everything and wake them up no matter what and tell them to ’phone down to Chief Shay that we stopped some bandits stealing a car. I’ll come running up to the house by a roundabout way and I’ll meet you there. See? They won’t be able to drive the car, not very fast anyway, and before they could change a tire or drive half a mile the Bridgeboro police will be here.”

This plan seemed sound and scientific. Nobody whose armament was limited to an ice-pick could have planned better. There was at least an even chance that the auto thieves would come this way and unless they were very near-sighted or very reckless they would certainly pause before Pee-wee’s flaunted warning. If Emerson had been skeptical at first he was now convinced that the chances were at least fair and that the plan of campaign was masterly.

In short there was not the slightest reason why the moon should have smiled down upon these brave preparations. But the moon did smile. Pee-wee did not smile, however. He scowled. He scowled the scowl of a hero as he laid aside the knife dripping with gore, and felt tenderly the point of the deadly ice-pick.

Perhaps it was a wonder the moon did not laugh out loud.