d
all my money; only don't----"

Jimmie flushed crimson. "You can't bribe me," he growled. At least, he
tried to growl, but because his voice was changing, or because he was
excited the growl ended in a high squeak. With mortification, Jimmie
flushed a deeper crimson. But the stranger was not amused. At Jimmie's
words he seemed rather the more amazed.

"I'm not trying to bribe you," he protested. "If you don't want
anything, why are you holding me up?"

"I'm not," returned Jimmie, "I'm arresting you!"

The stranger laughed with relief. Again his eyes smiled. "Oh," he cried,
"I see! Have I been trespassing?"

With a glance Jimmie measured the distance between himself and the
stranger. Reassured, he lifted one leg after the other over the wall.
"If you try to rush me," he warned, "I'll shoot you full of buckshot."

The stranger took a hasty step _backward_.

"Don't worry about that," he exclaimed. "I'll not rush you. Why am I
arrested?"

Hugging the shotgun with his left arm, Jimmie stopped and lifted the
binoculars. He gave them a swift glance, slung them over his shoulder,
and again clutched his weapon. His expression was now stern and
menacing.

"The name on them," he accused, "is 'Weiss, Berlin.' Is that your name?"
The stranger smiled, but corrected himself, and replied gravely, "That's
the name of the firm that makes them."

Jimmie exclaimed in triumph. "Hah!" he cried, "made in Germany!"

The stranger shook his head.

"I don't understand," he said. "Where _would_ a Weiss glass be
made?" With polite insistence he repeated, "Would you mind telling me
why I am arrested, and who _you_ might happen to be?"

Jimmie did not answer. Again he stooped and picked up the map, and as he
did so, for the first time the face of the stranger showed that he was
annoyed. Jimmie was not at home with maps. They told him nothing. But
the penciled notes on this one made easy reading. At his first glance he
saw, "Correct range, 1,800 yards"; "this stream not fordable"; "slope of
hill 15 degrees inaccessible for artillery." "Wire entanglements here";
"forage for five squadrons."

Jimmie's eyes flashed. He shoved the map inside his shirt, and with the
gun motioned toward the base of the hill. "Keep forty feet ahead of me,"
he commanded, "and walk to your car." The stranger did not seem to hear
him. He spoke with irritation.

"I suppose," he said, "I'll have to explain to you about that map."

"Not to me, you won't," dec