Pressing about Pee-wee, the scouts read eagerly the contents of that old musty oilskin memento of the days when Camp Merritt was a seething community of boys in khaki. The big spiders lurked in their webs; the repulsive little slugs, made homeless by the lifting of a damp, rotten board, hurried frantically about on the floor; a single ray of sunlight penetrated through a crevice, a slanting, dusty line, and lit up a little area of the dim, musty place. But there was no sound, not even from the scouts, save only the voice of Westy Martin as he read that old, creased, damp, all but undecipherable letter:

Your loving son.

There was something about this old missive which sobered the bantering troop of scouts and made even Pee-wee quiet and thoughtful.

“It’s a letter he was going to send,” Artie Van Arlen finally said.

“Who?” Doc Carson asked.

Artie shrugged his shoulders. “Somebody or other, that’s all we know,” he said. “We don’t even know who he was going to send it to; there are a whole lot of dear old mothers.”

“You said it,” commented Roy.

“Let’s see the other papers,” one of the scouts said.

The only other contents of the wallet were a small paper with blanks filled in, and an engraved calling card. The paper with the blanks filled in was so smeared from long moisture that the written parts were undecipherable. The paper was evidently a leave of absence from camp. The name was utterly blurred out, but by studying the smeared writing in the space where the date had been written the scouts thought they could determine the date, or at least part of it. Sun–1918 was all they could be sure of.

But fortunately the calling card appeared to confirm this date. It was a card of fine quality and beautifully engraved with the name of Helen Shirley Bates. In the lower left hand corner was engraved Woodcliff, New Jersey. On the back of the card was written in a free feminine hand For dinner Sunday April 14th, 1918. One o’clock.

“What do you make out of it? What does it mean? Who was he anyway?” the scouts, interrupting each other, asked, as these memorials of an unknown soldier boy were passed around from hand to hand and eagerly read.

Of all the scouts Westy Martin, of Roy’s Patrol, was the soberest and most thoughtful. He had the most balance. Not that Roy did not have balance, but he never had much on hand because he was continually losing it.

“Whoever he was,” Westy said, “it looks as if he got a leave of absence to go to the girl’s house for dinner. Going this way would be a shortcut to Woodcliff. Maybe he was going to take the train up from New Milford.”

“I guess he was going to mail the letter to his mother in New Milford, hey?” Hunt Ward of the Elks suggested.

“Yes, but why didn’t he?” Doc Carson asked.

“It’s a mystery,” said Pee-wee. “Do you know what I’m going to do?”

“Break it to us gently,” Roy said.

“Some day soon I’m going to hike to Woodcliff and see that girl and find out what that soldier’s name is and I’m going to send the letter to his mother.”

“What’s the use of doing that?” Vic Norris asked. “The soldier has probably been home two years by now.”

“I don’t care,” Pee-wee insisted; “the letter is to his mother and I’m going to see that she gets it.”

“Are you going to get a soda while you’re up at Woodcliff?” Roy asked him.

“That’s all right,” Pee-wee said with great vehemence; “if you got a letter that went astray you’d want it, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re talking in chunks,” Roy said. “Go ahead and see the girl if you want to. I bet she’ll think you’re sweet. Only come ahead and let’s get to camp.”

“Unanimously carried by a large majority,” Dorry Benton said. “Mysteries aren’t going to buy tar-paper for our old car.”

“There might have been a thousand dollars in this wallet,” Pee-wee reminded them.

“Except for one thing,” Roy said.

“And what’s that?” Pee-wee asked.

“That there wasn’t,” Roy said. “Put it in your pocket and come on.”

Though they treated Pee-wee’s find as something of a joke and attached no significance to it, still the discovery of these old papers which had now no meaning for anybody kept recurring to them as they made their way to the old camp. But the consensus of opinion was that these old mildewed remnants of another time were unimportant.

“What good is a letter when the fellow who sent it is already home?” Doc Carson asked.

“What use is a leave of absence that expired two or three years ago?” Connie Bennett added.“If that fellow’s away yet, he’s overstaying his leave, that’s sure,” said Roy.

“What good is a Sunday dinner that somebody ate a couple of years ago?” Doc queried.

“Maybe he’s up there eating it yet,” Will Dawson suggested.

“That’s the way our young hero would do,” said Roy.

“Do you mean to say it isn’t important–that dinner?” Pee-wee demanded.

“Sure, all dinners are important,” Roy said. “But one two years old isn’t much good. If it was only six months old I wouldn’t say anything, but two years–”

“You’re crazy!” vociferated Pee-wee.

“Sure,” said Roy, “one dinner is as important as another if not more so. Deny it if you can.”

“Anyway I’m going to see that girl,” Pee-wee said.

“At dinnertime?” Roy asked slyly.

“I’m going to find out who that fellow is, I’ve got his finger prints here, too, on this card–”

“G-o-o-d night,” laughed Roy. “The boy scout Sherlock Home Sweet Holmes. I suppose you’ll have that poor girl in Atlanta Penitentiary before you get through.”

“Let’s see the finger prints?” Westy asked.

Pee-wee showed him the card and there, sure enough, was a finger print on the face of it and two on the back. It looked as if someone with greasy hands had taken the card up as one usually holds a card....