While we were finishing our supper Chocolate Drop came in and talked to us and told us all the news. We kept him there talking just to make Hervey wait. Pee-wee kept on eating.

“I’m doing it just for the fun of it,” he said with his mouth full of pie.

“You mean you’re doing it just for the taste of it,” I told him.

“I’m prvntngscoutfrombrules,” he said.

“Your carburetor’s flooded,” I told him.

“I’m preventing a scout from breaking the rules,” he said.

“That’s better,” Westy told him.

I knew Hervey wouldn’t slide off the shutter while it was up, and I knew that Chocolate Drop wouldn’t let it down as long as we were eating, and I knew Pee-wee wouldn’t stop eating as long as there was anything left to eat. I knew Pee-wee would win if his ammunition held out.

After a while he began eating apple sauce, and then I knew there was no hope for Hervey. Because Pee-wee eats apple sauce better than anything else; you’d think he was a presti—a presti—diget—I should worry, you know what I mean, the way he makes it disappear—I mean a man that does tricks, a magician, or whatever you call him.

We were all sitting around watching him eat apple sauce, Chocolate Drop and all. I mean Chocolate Drop was sitting around watching with the rest of us. He wasn’t eating Chocolate Drop, far be it from it absolutely nevertheless. We were all laughing, thinking about Hervey sitting out there on that window shutter waiting for a chance to break the rule by an unavoidable cat—you know what I mean—a catas—something like an accident. Hervey was waiting for the apple sauce to stop going down so he could go down.

All of a sudden who should come strolling into the room but Brent Gaylong. He’s kind of long and lanky, and he wears spectacles, and he’s awful funny on account of being so sober. He takes everything as it comes, the same as Pee-wee does when he’s eating. He just kind of strolled over to the table and lifted the hanging lamp off its rack and marched out with it.

He said, “You fellows don’t need this.”

So there we sat in total darkness—I just happened to think of that word total, but anyway I don’t like it because it reminds me of arithmetic.

“We need this lamp to investigate some heavy tracks,” Brent said.

Gee whiz, you should have seen us all jump up, even Pee-wee. Because tracks are our middle name. We all started following Brent out and it looked awful funny, that parade with him at the head of it, carrying the lamp. He’s awful funny, that fellow is, on account of being so sober. He looks just as if school was opening or something like that.

Now I told you we’re all crazy and I’m going to prove it because we just followed him around just like when you play follow your leader.

“Where are the tracks?” Pee-wee wanted to know. I guess he was beginning to be sorry that he had left the apple sauce.

“Right down by the shore,” Brent said.

“Did you say they’re heavy tracks?” the kid wanted to know, all excited. “I bet they’re from a bull moose.”

“They’re the heaviest tracks I ever saw,” Brent said. He looked awful funny carrying that big lamp. He said, “I thought you fellows would be willing to cut short your suppers to see them. They’re down by the shore.”

“It’s a moose,” Pee-wee shouted. “He went there to drink.”

“If we can pick them up——” Brent started to say.

“I’ll pick them up,” Pee-wee shouted.

“And hold them——” Brent started again.

“I can pick up any tracks and hold them even on hard land,” Pee-wee said. “Don’t you know I’ve got the pathfinder’s badge?”

“He’s got so many badges he’s got the badger beat,” I said.

“Well, here they are,” Brent said.

By that time we had come to the shore and there in front of us were a couple of pieces of railroad track about a foot long each. They were the same two pieces that had always been there; they used to be used for anchors in the rowboats.

Every scout in camp knew about those two rusty old pieces of railroad track.

Brent said, very sober like, “What do you think of them? Is it a bull moose?”

“They look more like the tracks of a pig,” I said; “they’re pig iron.”

“You said you could pick up any tracks and hold them,” Westy said to Pee-wee. “Let’s see you do it.”

“You make me tired!” the kid yelled. “I stopped eating apple sauce on account of you.”

“You would have had to stop some time,” Brent said.

“No, I wouldn’t,” the kid shouted.

I said, “You should have known what he meant when he said ‘heavy tracks.’”

“You make me tired,” he said; “you didn’t know either.”

“Sure we knew,” I said. “You’re so dumb you think a railroad track is made by a bull moose. You desert your dessert and you’ve got your just deserts, and if there’s anything we’re sorry for we’re glad of it.”

“You’re all crazy!” Pee-wee yelled.

Just then, bang, down went the window shutter of the cooking shack and then kerplash we heard Hervey go tumbling into the water. Some accident!

“Any one hurt?” Brent called out very surprised like.

“No, I just fell into the water,” Hervey spluttered.

“Too bad,” said Brent.

I just looked at Brent and laughed. All the while he looked very sober and innocent.

I said, “You didn’t do a thing but help Hervey out.”

“You mean he helped Hervey in,” Warde Hollister said.

“I? What do you mean?” Brent asked us.

“You had a conspiracy to circumvent my apple sauce,” the kid screamed; “I know. You can’t fool me. You just deliberately on purpose stopped me from eating so Hervey Willetts could fall in the water, and you want us to think that you’re very innocent with your heavy tracks, but anyway I bet my appetite is just as heavy, and I could have prevented him from falling in the lake only you stopped me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brent said, very surprised and innocent. Gee whiz, he and Hervey Willetts are some pair. They’ve got Bartlett pears beaten twenty ways.

“You don’t mean to tell me I’d aid and abet anybody in breaking a rule, do you?” Brent said.

“Oh, positively, absolutely not,” I said. “Say not so. It just happened thusly as it were by an unforeseen accident that was planned out. You’re one good fellow, Brent, you’re always helping somebody.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Brent said.

“You don’t mean he helped me, do you?” our young Mammoth Cave wanted to know.

“Didn’t you have helpings enough to-night?” I asked him.