The sturdy little scout did not long walk alone. Roy, visibly affected, limped ahead, rapped him on the shoulder without saying a word, and hobbled along at his side. And presently Warde Hollister, quiet, thoughtful, and always somewhat a puzzle to the other scouts, joined them. “I’m with you, Kiddo,” he said. Pee-wee did not appear to care who was with him and who was not. His own stout little scout heart was with him, and that was enough.

And so these three who had taken the hike to Woodcliff, and discovered the tell-tale notice, and mailed the formidable envelope to somebody or other, they knew not whom, trudged along together now, and the resolute, loyal, unreasoning spirit of Pee-wee Harris was like a contagion, giving the others hope where indeed there seemed no hope, and diffusing something like cheer.

And noticing them, Westy said to Vic Norris of the Elks, “He’s a funny fellow, Warde; it always seems as if he thinks more than he speaks.”

“He never speaks till he’s sure,” Vic said.

The late afternoon sun was glinting up the river and bathing the patched roof of their old ramshackle railroad car in flickering tints of gold, as they made their way across the field to their quaint headquarters down by the shore in Bridgeboro. The tide was full, the unsightly mud banks hidden; it seemed as if their beloved familiar river had donned its best array to meet them. It rippled against the grassy shore in a kind of song of welcome. The birds were busy in the neighboring willow tree, and a fish flopped out of the glittering water as if to remind them that some of the pleasures of vacation time were left to them.

“Hello, old car!” said El Sawyer of the Ravens, as he tossed the duffel bag through a broken window. “I hope we have enough in the treasury to get that window put in.”

“We should worry,” said Roy.

“There’s a lot of fun not having any money,” said Pee-wee.

“We ought to have plenty of fun then,” said Westy. “This old car has got the County Poorhouse turning green with envy.”

“They have a lot of fun in the poorhouse, they whittle things with sticks,” Pee-wee said. “If you always have fun no matter what, that shows you’re an optomotrist.”

“You mean an optimist,” Doc Carson said.

“Let’s leave our stuff here and go home,” said Connie. “Then we can start in to-morrow.”

“Off with the new love, on with the old,” said Artie.

“There’s no place like this old car,” said Westy.

“Except Temple Camp,” two or three spoke up.

“And under Roy’s kitchen steps, that’s a good place,” said Pee-wee.

“Well, here we are anyway,” said Westy.

“We’re here because we’re here,” said Roy with just a glint of his wonted buoyant spirits.

“You can’t deny that,” Pee-wee challenged.

There was no denying that, and the old patched-up car, relic of a bygone age of railroading, seemed to breathe the atmosphere of home to them. Even the dusty odor of its threadbare velvet seats seemed to welcome them.They spent that night in their homes; there was much to tell their parents. Several of them went to see Mr. Ellsworth, and they were not disappointed to learn that he believed the authorities were right, that Blythe was Claude Darrell. They had expected this. The only scout who could draw his mighty sword against the scoutmaster and the whole town was Pee-wee Harris, and he was at home and asleep. Mr. Ellsworth praised his scouts for abandoning all thought of gain from their unhappy adventure. “Just start all over again,” he said. So they resolved to do that.

The next day county detective Ferrett took a hop, skip and a jump into fame. Upon the front page of the Bridgeboro Evening Record was the following headliner:

MURDERER FOUND IN SCOUT CAMP. SENSATIONAL SEQUEL TO BOY SCOUT ENTERPRISE IN OLD CAMP MERRITT.

Claude Darrell, a Canadian fugitive of many aliases, was discovered yesterday by County Detective Slicksby Ferrett in old Camp Merritt where he was found working with a troop of local scouts, tearing down some of the old buildings of the wartime concentration camp. Darrell is wanted in Quebec for burglary and murder.

His discovery and prompt identification by Detective Ferrett was due to an alarm sent to Bridgeboro of an accident at the old camp.

The information being uncertain, local police officials and the county officer accompanied the ambulance to the camp, where it was found that the young man, who is a stranger to the scouts, had sustained injuries to his head and body. The hospital officials say that he will recover.

His injuries were caused by the falling of a roof. The fellow was of a rough appearance, his clothing in the last stages of shabbiness.

Detective Ferrett’s skill and long experience enabled him to judge at once that the fellow was of the criminal class. He had been palming himself off on the youngsters as an unfortunate, out of work, and they had been helping him.

An inspection of his coat label and comparison of his face with a police alarm picture which the detective had, enabled him to make the identification. Owing to the almost emaciated condition of the fugitive and to his injury, it has not been possible to verify the identification by measurements, but there seems no doubt that he is the man wanted by the Canadian authorities.

These have been notified and Dominion detectives will visit Bridgeboro as soon as the patient has fully regained consciousness and it is possible to compel him to confront those who know him face to face.

Detective Ferrett, whose skill and shrewdness and remarkable memory enabled him to bring this brutal criminal within the reach of justice, warns parents not to let their children play in spots unfrequented by their elders, because of the numerous thugs and desperate characters cast adrift by the war and the present period of unemployment. These, he says, are usually to be found on the outskirts of small towns. Many of them come from New York. They pretend to be fond of camping and so lure and then rob their adventure loving victims....