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After I wrote it I stuck it up high on one of the marsh weeds. This is where Roy Blakeley, patrol leader, Silver Fox Patrol, Bridgeboro Troop, B. S. A., was sucked down into the marsh, after he couldn't stand up any more. I was standing on something that was hard and maybe you'll find my body lying on that. In my desk is something I was going to give my mother for a birthday present.
"Why, surely," he said, "I'm not suspecting him of anything. Neither is anyone else. The only thing that puzzles me is, how the key happened to be on the deck where he found it. We swabbed the decks so thoroughly before leaving Bridgeboro. One of our boys might have dropped some change and never known it But how did the key happen to be there?
Haskell had reached out and dealt him a knockout blow, under the exclusive auspices of Pee-wee Harris, mascot of the raving Ravens, scout of the first class, master of good turns, defender and exponent of good scout law Number Two, First Bridgeboro, New Jersey, Troop, Boy Scouts of America! It was many days before all the bits of this strange puzzle were put together and the full truth revealed.
You will pay particular attention to the luxurious rear seat of this car because it was destined to be the couch of a world hero, rivalling Cleopatra's famous barge which you will find drifting around in the upper grade history books. This was the only super six Hunkajunk touring car in Bridgeboro and it belonged to the Bartletts who on this momentous night occupied its front seat.
Tom was seldom mentioned, at all events. The first member of the Bridgeboro troop to outgrow his companions and turn his thoughts to new friends and associates had broken away from the hallowed circle and deserted them, and repudiated them with a lie on his lips; that was what the scouts said, or at least, thought. They had seen it coming, but it had hurt just the same.
The concerted assault which the scouts made upon their parents for permission to proceed with their plan ended in a compromise. Late that same afternoon Mr. Ellsworth, scoutmaster of the troop, drove up to the old camp in his auto and looked over the situation. He talked with Blythe also and was evidently not unfavorably impressed, for he returned to Bridgeboro quite converted to the enterprise.
Jeb Rushmore was calm and self-contained and so were most of the boys as they stood ready to do his bidding. "Naow, ye see what I meant when I said a leopard's as sneaky as a fire," said Jeb. "Here, you Bridgeboro troop and them two Maryland troops and the troop from Washin't'n," he called, "you make a bucket line like we practiced. Tom whar's Tom?
As he rowed across, he looked around once in a while, and as the boat drew near the boys saw that its occupant had iron gray hair, a long drooping moustache, and a face deeply wrinkled and browned almost to a mulatto hue. "Hello," called Roy. "Is that Temple Camp over there? I guess we came in the back way." "Thet's it," said the man. "You some o' the Bridgeboro boys?"
That was the end, so far as Bridgeboro was concerned, of the jovial, good-hearted grocer, and Fritzie and little Emmy and "Mooder" in her stiff, spotless white apron. It seemed almost unbelievable. "A Hun is a Hun," said Pete, "'n' that's all thar is to't." "What did they do with all the stuff?" Tom asked. Pete shrugged his shoulders.
It's the sign of the scout! It's more important than the uniform." "He'd look nice going down Main Street with a belt-axe and no uniform," I said; "you're crazy on the subject of belt-axes. What's the matter, are you afraid Hindenberg is going to invade Bridgeboro? You should worry about a belt-axe. Wait till he's a tenderfoot."
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