One of the things that made me feel especially bad was that Wig Weigand and Artie Van Arlen were there working, even after being nearly killed the night before, and Artie was kind of lame, too, from straining his ankle when he fell. Gee, I had to hand it to those fellows. And even Pee-wee was working away with the rest of the Ravens and running to buy nails and everything. Both of the other patrols were all there except Tom Slade in the Elks, but they kept his place open for memory, sort of.

After a little while Mr. Ellsworth strolled over to where I was working and said to me—gee, he was awful nice the way he said it—he said, “Roy, if you want to follow up that trail you may as well go ahead and come back after lunch. We’re going to hit the eats pretty soon now.” That’s the way he always says it, “hit the eats.”

“I was expecting Westy to go with me,” I told him.

“Well, no matter,” he said; “go alone and don’t worry any more about Westy. It wasn’t because Westy or any other single scout was needed here for we have plenty of scouts on the job, but it was just that he didn’t show up when we all planned to be here, that’s all. I don’t like to think of any of my scouts falling down.”

“It’s the same about my patrol,” I said, “and I’m ashamed, that’s one sure thing.”

He said I shouldn’t feel that way and that he guessed playing baseball was good exercise anyway. But he only said that so I wouldn’t feel bad.

Anyway as long as they were going to eat I thought I might as well go ahead and see if I could do that tracking if it didn’t take me too far. On the way down to the other landing I thought what I’d say to Westy. I knew he’d get a troop reprimand, but I decided he’d get a patrol reprimand too, you bet. And I was feeling pretty bad about it too, because none of the Silver Foxes ever got a troop reprimand. They got patrol reprimands but not troop reprimands. And Westy had gone and spoiled it all and, gee, that’s one word I don’t like—slacker.

When I got to the other landing I started following that trail. If you think Westy had anything to do with it, you’re mighty mistaken, because he didn’t. He always wore scout shoes, I knew that.

Well, believe me, that trail was a cinch and I could follow it as easy as a clothes line. It went right up through River Lane where there isn’t any pavement and every footprint was plain. I was afraid it would go through Daws Place, because that’s the easiest way to get to Main Street, and I’d lose it there on account of the pavement. But it didn’t, and, oh, boy, wasn’t I glad!

Instead of going that way the tracks went right up across the ball field, just as plain as print. That’s another way to get to Main Street, and it brings you out at Harvey’s candy store, but don’t ever go there for ice cream cones, because you get bigger ones down at Jack’s.

Then I lost the trail on account of the pavements. Gee, that’s one thing I don’t like about pavements. So there’s where I did some deducing. Maybe you don’t know what bridging a trail-gap means. You have only yourselves to blame for not being scouts. Bridging a trail-gap means stopping to think when you lose a trail. You have to decide where it most likely starts again. That’s what grown-up scouts call mental tracking.

So I sat down on Ridgeway’s carriage step and thinked a couple of thinks. That’s right on Main Street, you know, and I had to decide if that person went up or down Main Street or across the street. Right across the street is the big bank building. I’ve got forty-two dollars and eighteen cents interest in that bank. Mr. Temple is the head of it, and he’s awful rich—he owns railroads and things. He started Temple Camp. He calls me “Curly” because my hair curls. I should worry.

Right down alongside of the bank runs Barrel Alley. It reminds you of Fifth Avenue, it’s so different. That’s where Tom Slade was born, down there. Most every day somebody dies down there, but anyway there are paving-stones there now, that’s one good thing. Except for tracking. So you see how it was; that person, who ever he was, could have gone up Main Street or down Main Street, or over the stone crossing into Barrel Alley.

I decided that he went across into Barrel Alley for several reasons. One was that he went across the ball field, and that meant that he’d have to get down and crawl under the fence, so I decided it was not a grown-up person, because most of them have stiff backs and they’d rather walk a mile than crawl under a fence. They’re all the time saying they’re not as young as they used to be. And if it was a boy he’d be most likely to go into Barrel Alley because, believe me, they have boys down there by the dozens, especially the kind that wear worn-out shoes that rich people give them. So that accounts for the good shoes all worn out.

Smart boy, hey?

So you see that’s the way I bridged that trail, though I couldn’t be sure I was right, I have to admit that. Anyway I went across the street and I saw by the clock in the bank that it was half past twelve. I knew I couldn’t go much farther because I wanted to get back to the house-boat by one.

I started down Barrel Alley, watching the mud along the edge of the sidewalk, so I could tell if the fellow left the sidewalk to go into one of the houses. Barrel Alley is a blind alley—that means it has an end to it and you can’t go any further. It runs plunk into the end of Shad Row. Norris Row is the right name, but old man Norris is named Shadley Norris, so us fellows call it Shad Row. You can get through the end of Barrel Alley if you climb over old man Norris’ back fence, so it isn’t exactly a blind alley. It’s just a little near-sighted, kind of.

Anyway I started through it and I knew if my quarry (that means the fellow you’re tracking) went down there, he most likely went into one of the tenement houses and I’d see that footprint as soon as he turned off from the sidewalk.

Well, pretty soon I did see it right alongside the sidewalk just where he started to go into one of the houses. And oh, wasn’t I tickled! If it hadn’t been for Westy Martin and the way he’d acted I would have felt as grand as the Grand Central Station. But that was the thing I was thinking most about and when you’re thinking about something like that, you don’t have very much fun—I know I don’t anyway.

But as long as I was there, I might as well find out who it was I had tracked and solve the mystery about the Indian head. That’s the way Pee-wee would have said it, “solve the mystery.” He gets that kind of talk out of books. The next chapter is going to be a dandy and I promised to let him give it a name, so don’t blame me whatever it is.

So long.