Without another word, Mr. Fee drew in his long legs, arose, went over to where a book was hanging, looked in it, then took the receiver from the old-fashioned box telephone on the wall. The party waited, greatly awed by this show of calm efficiency, and ability to get right at the heart of the matter. Pee-wee was particularly elated, for presently his ident.i.ty and whereabouts would be established and explained. He listened, with growing interest as the justice, unperturbed by delays and mistakes, finally succeeded in securing the desired number.

"This two-four-eight-Bridgeboro?" Pee-wee heard. "Sorry to get you up at this hour. You Mr. James Bartlett? Yes. This is the peace justice at--What? I say this is the peace justice--peace--yes this is the peace justice--_justice of the peace_--at Piper's Crossroads, Noo York State.

What? Yes. Noo York State. Pipes? No _Piper's_--Piper's Crossroads. Was your automobile stolen? Your automobile. What? I say was your auto--"

"Sure it was stolen," Pee-wee said; "you just mention--"

"Keep still. I say--was your automobile stolen--_STOLEN_? Well, it's for your sake--what's that? All right."

There followed a pause. Justice Fee waited but did not address the company. A dead silence reigned. They could hear the ticking of the big grandfather's clock in the corner. Peter thought that signalling was better than this. Ham thought how wonderful it was for a man to have so much "book learning" that he could go right to the heart of a matter like this. Pee-wee thought how, in about ten seconds, he would be able to denounce these strangers, and appear as the real hero that he was. He would ignore Peter Piper entirely and give Justice Fee an edifying lecture on scouting. In about ten seconds they would all see....

"What's that?" said the justice, busy at the 'phone. "Your car is in your garage? I say--what's that? Oh, you looked? Sure about that, eh?

Yes--yes--yes. You haven't got two cars? Six cars? Oh, six cylinders.

No--no.... It's all safe in your garage, you say? Yes. Well, sorry to trouble you. No, not at all. Yes. All right. Good-bye."

Peter Piper looked at Pee-wee with a kind of awe. He had seen the other thief escape in the darkness; everything had been exciting and confused.

But now, in the lamplight and within the safety of those four walls he beheld a real crook, caught, cornered, at bay.

Justice Fee had simplified the whole thing, talking little, depending on hard, cold facts. He had hit the vital spot of the whole mysterious business. He had caught this little hoodlum satellite of thieves in an ugly lie. Yet Peter Piper, who had in him the makings of a real scout, was not happy. He had thought that he would be happy, but now he was not.

"If--if you'll--maybe--if I could take him to my house," he began, twitching his fingers nervously as he gazed wistfully at the Justice who embodied the relentless law, "if you'd let me do that he couldn't run away, it's so far, and he said he was hungry and--and anyway there isn't anything to steal at my house."

That was better than reading the signal. And Peter Piper, pioneer scout of Piper's Crossroads was a better scout than he knew....

CHAPTER XXVII

SOME NOISE

There was one place where the searchlight message was translated with a readier skill than at Piper's Crossroads, and where it created quite as great consternation. That was at the camp on Frying-pan Island. It was like A.B.C. to half a dozen of those practiced scouts, and to others not so well practiced, for the skill of the sender had made the reading easy. In less than a minute the camp was the scene of hurried talk and lightning preparation.

"What do you know about that?" asked Sparrow Blake. He was in the Mammoth Patrol, made up of the smaller scouts in Safety First's troop.

"I don't know _anything_ about it," said Scoutmaster Ned, reaching for his plaited khaki jacket; "I don't know any more about it than you do.

n.o.body could get in that place, so I don't see how anyone could get out.

Come ahead, Bill," he added hastily, addressing the other scoutmaster.

This was followed by a vociferous chorus.

"Can I go?"

"I'm with you."

"I'll row."

"No you won't, _I_ will."

"You mean me."

"Get from under and go back to bed," said Scoutmaster Ned, excitedly.

"What do you fellows think this is; a regatta?"

"Aren't we going to chase them?"

"You're going to chase yourselves. Do you think we've got a battleship?

We've only got one of the boats here. Chuck me that leather case--"

"Your pistol?"

"Never you mind what's in it. Come ahead, Bill, and you Norris, and look out you don't step in the soup bucket. Is there a light over on sh.o.r.e?"

"Sure, they've got a lantern; trust Nick not to forget anything."

"I'm going so as to carry the lantern."

"Yes, you're not," said Scoutmaster Ned; "never mind your coat, Bill, come ahead. I hope they had sense enough to get hold of a machine somewhere. They could get Barney's flivver."

"Shall we signal over to them?" called a dozen excited voices.

"No, there isn't time. Come on now, _hustle_, and the rest of you go to sleep."

"While you're chasing thieves? Did you hear what he said? Go to sleep!

Can you beat that, from a scoutmaster! And him always telling us to be wide awake."

"Get out of the way, all of you," said Scoutmaster Bill, alias Safety First. "You're like a lot oh mosquitoes."

The whole camp followed the two scoutmasters and Norris to the sh.o.r.e, where there seemed likely to be a stampede for the one small boat.

"If you're going to take Norris--"

"Norris can drive the other car back if I get mine," interrupted Scoutmaster Ned. "He has a license; now are you all satisfied?"

They saw that under his persistent good nature he was worried and preoccupied, and like the good scouts they were, they said no more about going. They knew the pride he took in his Hunkajunk auto. They knew that his one thought was of that now.

Yet Scoutmaster Ned Garrison's sense of humor was ever ready, even in anxiety or disappointment. It was that which endeared him to his troop, whom he was forever denouncing and contemplating with a kind of mock despair. He called them an infernal rabble and they loved him for it. He was a new kind of a scoutmaster. And I honestly believe that when Scoutmaster Ned thrust that leather case containing his revolver down into his pocket, if he could only have known that it was for the purpose of shooting Pee-wee Harris, he would have laughed so hard that he would have capsized the rowboat.

CHAPTER XXVIII

ON THE TRAIL

The boat glided swiftly through the dark water.

"Nick will get the silver cup for that stunt," said Norris.