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It appeared that not only thugs and bandits, but occasionally a surgeon who knew his business, came from New York. And then something happened.... The doctor from New York discovered something which the eagle eye of Detective Ferrett had not discovered. And which the Bridgeboro doctors had not discovered. It was nothing new.
As sure as he lived, there in front of him was the seventeenth century, F. O. B. Bridgeboro, with all appurtenances and accessories. He stood gaping at a little island out in the middle of the stream, which had no more business there than Pee-wee had had to be dozing in the library. Pee-wee stood stark still in the middle of the field and rubbed his eyes to make sure that he was awake.
"Hurrah for Bridgeboro High! Come on, you can go around us! If a man can listen, I've got a dandy argument if a man can shoot a bird on the wing a race like that is just as good you can encircle an island on the wing too! Come on! Come on! It's a new kind of a race! A lot of girls paid ten cents to see it! Come on, go around us!"
It was upon the shore of this little island that the two young men who had driven the automobile from Bridgeboro pulled their boat ashore about ten minutes after they had all unknowingly locked Scout Harris in their makeshift lakeside garage.
The surgeon in spotless white examined Blythe and said little. When one of the scouts ventured to ask him if the injuries would prove fatal he said, "Not necessarily." "Who is this fellow anyway?" the Bridgeboro chief asked. "He's a fellow that's hurt," Doc Carson answered rather dryly. "Belong around here?" "He was working here and we were helping him," Westy said. "What's his name?" "Blythe."
Crowds thronged the main street of Bridgeboro on that Saturday night but the island lay peacefully against the shore of the wood skirting the river and the town might have been a hundred miles on for all the campers could tell. "Well, we've had quite a week," said Townsend; "and now that we're started I hope we'll stick together and make a real, honest-to-goodness patrol.
Over a partly fallen arch, under which many reluctant feet had passed, Pee-wee could just make out the graven words: WEST KETCHEM PUBLIC SCHOOL. West Ketchem. So that was where he was. But he had never heard of West Ketchem. The fame of this lakeside metropolis had not penetrated to surging Bridgeboro. At least it had' not penetrated to the surging mind of Scout Harris.
Anyway, I hope you'll admit that two heads are better than one, because I had to tell a fellow about you. That was because I guess he's the only one here who would help me. There's a little fellow named Skinny McCord here, and he came from Bridgeboro with us. His name isn't really Skinny, but they call him that because he's that way, and one thing, you'd be sorry for him if you saw him.
John Temple, of the summers spent there, of how he had later gotten a job on a steamer carrying supplies to the allies; how he had helped to apprehend a spy, how the ship had been torpedoed, how he had been rescued after two days spent in an open boat, of his roundabout journey back to Bridgeboro, and the taking up again of his prosaic duties in the local office of Temple Camp.
Had he not the power to straighten out his own mistake in the best possible way the scout way? And how was that? By going to Mr. Burton and taking the matter up and perhaps causing disappointment to those boys out in Ohio, for the sake of these boys in Bridgeboro? Robbing Peter to pay Paul? Perhaps Mr. Burton would have done that, under all the circumstances. Perhaps Mr.
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