As Pee-wee turned from the mail slot he saw Warde and Roy gazing at a very antiquated bulletin board such as one seldom sees elsewhere than in a country post office.

These ancient bulletin boards bespeak the country as eloquently as do the hayfields. They seem never to be new. Articles lost but long since restored to their owners are still advertised on faded brittle paper, fastened by rusted thumb tacks of a bygone age. Strawberry festivals, with strawberries that have gone the way of all strawberries, are here announced. Auction sales and Red Cross drives long ended here proclaim themselves like ghosts out of the dead past. Letters waiting patiently for people whose names are on tombstones are here listed.

Pee-wee pressed his way between Warde and Roy and gazed at a notice by no means new which, partly overlapped by later notices, had caught the eyes of his two friends:

But it was not the reading matter on this notice which riveted the attention of the scouts and for a few moments held them speechless. Two pictures, one a front face, the other a profile, were there shown.“What–” Pee-wee began, anxiously, hesitatingly, as if he dared not say what was in his mind.

“Yep,” said Warde, with a kind of cold resolve, as if one of them must express their common thought; “it’s him–it’s Blythe.”

Still neither Roy nor Pee-wee spoke, only stood there, gazing steadfastly at the pictures. The eyes in the full face picture were looking straight at them. There was the least suggestion of a smile on the mouth. It seemed as if Blythe might be saying in that simple, pleased way of his, “Congratulations, now you’re a regular scout.” Warde averted his gaze. He felt almost sickened. Then he looked at the pictures again, steadily, intensely.... He seemed only half conscious of Roy saying, “I’m going to ask the postmaster how long that’s been there.”

Then suddenly Roy felt the authority of his new scout, subordinate though that scout was. He felt Warde’s hand detaining him. “Ask him nothing,” he heard Warde say; “stay where you are.” Pee-wee felt this calm authority, too. Or rather this influence of one who is well poised and thoughtful.

And still, with spirits drooping, with the whole foundation of their happiness rudely knocked from under them as it seemed, they stood gazing at these pictures of their friend. This murderer. Here was another murder to add to that former one in Canada. The murder of all their hopes and plans.... The killing of a friendship.

They heard the man behind the lock-boxes come through the little gate. They heard the gate swing shut. They felt a presence near them.

“Well, what do you find to interest you, boys?” they heard a drawling voice ask.

“We were–we were just wishing that we had been at the strawberry festival–the one a year ago last June,” replied Warde Hollister.