Then the scene of all their good times and of their broken hopes was quiet again, the ambulance and its attendant throng was gone, and the scouts were alone.

“Can you hike home with your ankle like that?” Grove Bronson asked Roy.

“Sure, we can take our time. If we get home by evening it’s all right.”

“It’s going to be moonlight here to-night–full moon,” Westy said.

“Let’s get the cooking things packed first,” Connie Bennett said. “Then we’ll clear up.”

“We might stay for one more camp-fire,” Hunt Ward suggested, half-heartedly.

“It wouldn’t seem the same,” Artie said.

They had all realized that. Dorry Benton laid aside the several tools that he had gathered up and looked about as if wondering what to do next.“He saved your life,” Will Dawson said to Roy.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Roy replied, a little catch in his voice.

“Maybe if you–sort of–you know, if you save a life, maybe it makes up for taking one–” El Sawyer said. But it was plain that he did not quite believe that.

“He didn’t do it,” Pee-wee said stoutly. “Do you think I don’t know? I don’t care what–he didn’t do it. He likes us an–and–I–I like him–I–”

“Don’t, Kid, please don’t,” said Roy.

“Didn’t I say we were going to have two desserts that day I stalked a hop-toad up at Temple Camp, and wasn’t I right?” Pee-wee persisted. “So there. I can always tell. And if a fellow saved my life I wouldn’t let anybody say he was a murderer, I wouldn’t.”

“You’re a little brick, Kid,” said Roy.

“A scout has got to be loyal, hasn’t he?” Pee-wee shouted. “Let’s hear you deny that. You can bet your life I wouldn’t have any murderers saving my life. I don’t care about the Dominion Clothing Company or anybody else. If you say he killed anybody, he didn’t; that’s all I say. A scout has tuition.”

“You mean intuition, Kid?” Westy laughed.

“I don’t care about signs or anything,” Pee-wee stoutly protested; “and I don’t care for detectives either. Do you think I can’t tell a murderer? Everything can turn out to be something different, can’t it? I can prove it by the movies.”

Warde Hollister stepped up to him and slapped his shoulder. “You’re one bully little scout, Kid,” he said. Warde seemed almost converted by Pee-wee’s inspiring, unreasoning loyalty.

“Sometimes I agree with you, Kid,” he said. “And then again–”

“I agree with myself all the time,” Pee-wee said; “and I don’t care who agrees with me.”

“One thing I’m glad of,” Westy said, “and that is that somebody else gets the money; let them have all the credit, too. We had our fun while it lasted,” he added wistfully. “And I’m glad Warde didn’t count that trip for his first class badge. I’m glad we don’t have anything to do with the bad side of it. It seems now just as if a friend had died, that’s all.”“I kind of hope he does die,” Grove Bronson said.

“Just after being a hero,” Connie added.

This was too much for Roy. It brought poor Blythe’s heroism and his own rescue home to him with vivid force, his eyes filled and everything about the old familiar scene glistened.

“Come on, let’s get ready,” he finally said. “Let’s get away from here.”

They could not share Pee-wee’s staunch conviction; they doubted whether Pee-wee really did agree with himself in this matter. But they admired him none the less for that.

Disconsolately they set about clearing up and gathering their belongings. It seemed strange that one so quiet and unobtrusive as poor Blythe could be so keenly missed. Now that he was gone they could see nothing but pathetic reminders of him, the old grocery box he sat on at camp-fire, the box in which he put old nails; above all, the windmill where he had suffered that inexplicable brainstorm in the night. As for Roy, who owed his life to their strange friend, he could not regain any measure of his former spirits, nor even put a brave front to the disappointment as the others did. He limped about, silent and crestfallen.

In the mid-afternoon they started on their hike back to Bridgeboro, a cheerless group. Before going out between the old gateposts they turned for a last glimpse of the scene of their pleasant camping and working adventure. Only a few uprights of one shack remained. The accident had done the work of a day in ten seconds. There was the charred area where their mighty fire had been. And further off was the gaunt tower of the windmill, its big fan revolving slowly, the only remaining thing suggestive of life in the desolated camp.

“I suppose we could get the money for our work, maybe,” Westy said.

“We don’t want any money,” said Hunt Ward of the Elks. “All I want is to get back to our old car down by the river. We don’t want any rewards and we don’t want any pay and we don’t want any merits or rank badges or anything on account of being here.”

“It seems kind of like a dream now,” Artie said.

“You never can tell how some dreams will come out,” said Pee-wee. “Once I had a dream that I was a murderer and when I woke up I found I wasn’t a murderer at all.”

“That’s one thing we like about you,” said Roy with a poor attempt at his old bantering spirit.

“What’s that?” Pee-wee asked.

“That you’re not a murderer.”

“I always said you were not,” Westy added.

“No friend of ours is a murderer,” Pee-wee said.

“I guess we’ll have to go back to raising mushrooms now,” Will Dawson observed. “Anyway, I’m glad we’ve got our old car to go to.”

“Same here,” said Vic Norris of the Elks.

They walked along for a little in silence.

“Will they hang him, I wonder?” Doc Carson asked.

“He must have been out of his head when he did it,” one answered.

“He was out of his head when he didn’t do it, you mean,” insisted Pee-wee. “Do you think the Silver Foxes commit murders just because they’re out of their heads? That’s no good of an argument. Do you mean to tell me,” he shouted, turning suddenly upon Roy; “do you mean to tell me that the fellow who saved your life like that would kill people?”

“Just because I like you, that doesn’t prove that I’m out of my head, does it?” Roy asked with a kind of wistful humor.

“Sure it does,” said Pee-wee, “because you say a friend of yours kills people. If it wasn’t for him you wouldn’t be limping now, so that proves the kind of a fellow he is. I don’t mean he made you limp, but he made you stay alive so you could limp, and he doesn’t even know that you thank him for it either–”

“Don’t, Kid–” Roy began; he could hardly speak. “I do–”

“All right then,” Pee-wee concluded. “Didn’t I tell you I was going to find that girl, and didn’t I find her? Didn’t I send that letter? Didn’t I say that scout up at Temple Camp would get well? Couldn’t I always tell when we were going to have apple dumplings? And you go and believe an old picture and a lot of specific vacations or whatever you call them. You’d better read Law Two in the handbook about being loyal–you’re such a fine patrol leader–you act more like a patrol wagon!”“What do you mean I can’t be loyal?” Roy demanded, his eyes glistening. “The fellows–”

“I don’t care about the troop,” Pee-wee interrupted. “I’m talking about you and the fellow that saved your life.” He paused in the road and stood facing Roy; a funny little round-faced figure he was, with eyes blazing. “You’ve got to say, is he a murderer or not? You’ve got to say it. Yes or no? And these fellows–your own patrol–they can prove what you say–”

Roy was almost sobbing. Pee-wee certainly held the floor–or the road.

“The men–Mr. Ferrett–they know better than we do, Kid. Blythe is the one whose picture–”

“You say yes or no,” Pee-wee demanded in a voice of thunder. “They lifted him off where you were caught and so now you’re alive and you can speak. Is he a murderer or isn’t he?”

Roy was going to pieces. The little scout whom he had always found it so easy to jolly, towered over him. The tiny Raven was become a giant. “I–no he–no he isn’t–he isn’t, Kid,” Roy stammered.

Without another word Pee-wee hooked his duffel bag to the end of his scout staff, after the fashion of a Swiss peasant, and carrying the staff over his shoulder, marched on ahead like a conquering hero, as if he preferred not to be seen hiking with such people....