When Westy strode away after making his sensational announcement at the farm, Ira Hasbrook watched the departing figure through a dense cloud of tobacco smoke. He was puzzled. For a while he smoked leisurely, submitting with languid amiability to the tirade of Aunt Mira. And when she finally withdrew to the sitting room to write to Bridgeboro he continued smoking and thinking for fully half an hour. Only once in all that time did he make any audible comment.

“Some kid,” he mused aloud.

It would be hard to say whether this comment was in approval of Westy’s sudden inspiration to kill a deer or in perplexity as to what he actually had done. Certainly Ira would not have held it to the boy’s discredit if he had killed a deer. He rather liked Westy’s unexplained decision to reform and kill a deer. With such a fine beginning he might some day even go after an Indian or run away to sea. Ira was greatly amused at the naÏve way in which Westy had suddenly come out into the open as a lawless adventurer....

But he was puzzled. For one thing it seemed odd to him that Westy, directly after his bizarre exploit, should have chanced upon Luke Meadows, the leading poacher of the neighborhood and the bane of farmers and game wardens for miles around.

Ira’s attitude with respect to Westy’s sensational confession was not the moral attitude.

“I’ll be gol darned, I don’t believe he did it,” he mused. His thought seemed to be that it was too good to be true.

He slowly drew himself to his feet, pulled his outlandish felt hat from its peg, refilled his pipe, and sauntered over into the woods where he soon hit the trail which formed the short cut to Chandler. He had not walked fifteen minutes when he heard voices and presently came upon a little group of people gazing at the carcass of the deer. Terry, the game warden, and Farmer Sands were very much in evidence.

“What cher goin’ to do with him; drag him out?” Ira inquired without wasting any words in greeting.

“H’lo, Iry,” said the game warden. “Work of the boy scouts; pretty good job, huh?”

“Yere, so he was tellin’ me,” drawled Ira. “Plunked him right in the bean, huh?”

“Who was tellin’ yer?” inquired Farmer Sands with aggressive shrewdness.

“The kid,” drawled Ira.

“Yer don’t mean he come back and told yer?” Farmer Sands inquired incredulously.

“Uh huh, work of the boy scouts,” said Ira. “I was thinkin’ he might ’a been lyin’ only I don’t believe he knows how ter lie any more’n he knows how to shoot. Got a match, Terry?”

Ira leisurely lighted his unwilling pipe and proceeded in his lazy way to examine the carcass.

“Plunked him twice, huh—one under the belly there.”

Ira wandered about, kicking the bushes while the men fixed a rope about the head of the carcass.

“I s’pose you know all ’bout what happened then, if the boy went back to the farm?” Terry called to him.

“Me?” Ira answered. “Naah, I don’t know nuthin ’bout what happened. I know the kid lost a hundred dollars he was savin’ up. This here tobaccy package b’long to you, Terry?”

“Where’d you find that?” Terry called.

“Over here in the bushes. Me and you never smoked such mild tobaccy as Mechanical Delights or whatever it is. Howling Bulldog Plug Cut for us, hey? Do you need any help, you men? Prob’ly the kid was smokin’ Mechanical Delights and didn’t know what he was doin’, that’s my theory. He couldn’t see through the smoke.”

He stuffed the empty tinfoil package into his pocket and started ambling through the woods toward Barrett’s.

“Thar’s the man ’at’s to blame fer this here vila-shun of the law,” said Farmer Sands shrewdly. “Him’s the man ’at turned that thar youngster’s head—I tell yer that, Terry.”

“Like enough,” said Terry. “Him and that scoutin’ craze.”

“Maybe it was the scouting craze that made him tell the truth,” said a bystander, evidently a city boarder in the neighborhood. “It seems a queer thing that a young boy should break the law and shoot big game and then go and give himself up.”

“No, ’tain’t nuther,” said Farmer Sands. “He got sceered, that’s why he confessed. He was sceered outer his skin soon as he clapped eyes on me an’ Terry. You can’t fool me, by gum! I see jes haow it was the minute I set eyes on the little varmint!”

But he hadn’t seen how it was at all. Nor had Terry seen how it was. For the explanation of this whole business was locked up in that dungeon of mysteries in Mr. Martin’s library. It had been under their very noses and they had not so much as examined it. And now it was in that closet of dark traditions away off in Bridgeboro, under the grim and autocratic guard of Westy’s father. And there it remained until a stronger man than Mr. Martin ordered him to bring it out.