' said Billy Seton. 'I suggest that
somebody lends him a pair of tracking-irons, and we give him a quarter
of an hour's start. When we come up to him we'll fire at him with
tennis-balls, as usual. If we hit him three times, he's dead. If he
hits one of us first, that man's dead, and out of the hunt.'

'Righto!' said Chippy. 'I've studied them rules. I'm ready.'

'And I'll lend the tracking-irons,' cried Dick Elliott.

Chippy put on the tracking-irons with immense pride and delight. He
had wondered so much what these things were, and to fasten a pair on
his feet, and to make tracks with them for a real patrol to pursue
him--it was simply great.

'Wait a bit!' said George Lee. 'We've got our tennis-balls to fire at
him; but how is he going to fire at us?'

'That's all right,' said Chippy. 'We've played that game. I've got
mine 'ere.'

He dived a hand into one of his wide-spreading pockets, and brought out
a ball.

'That isn't a tennis-ball,' said Arthur scornfully.

It was not. Chippy's funds did not run to tennis-balls. It was a
bottle-cork wrapped up in pieces of rag, and whipped into shape with
string.

'I'll tek my chance wi' it,' said Chippy calmly, and prepared to start.

The patrol laughed as he scuttled out of the pit, and Dick stood with
watch in hand to give him the proper law.

'He's a rum-looking beggar!' said Billy Seton, 'but I'll be hanged if
he isn't wide-o. And I reckon he stood it uncommonly well, the way you
jawed him, Arthur. He didn't get a bit raggy; he just hung on to his
chance of showing himself to be a boy scout.'

'Pooh!' said Arthur. 'This is turning the whole thing into piffle.
You fellows seemed to want to chivvy him, so I agreed just for the
joke. But it isn't likely that we shall recognise wharf-rats as
brother scouts!'

'Not likely!' cried No. 6, whose name was Reggie Parr; but the others
said nothing.

When time was up, away went the Wolf Patrol on the tracks which Chippy
Slynn had made, and for some distance they followed them at an easy
trot, for Chippy had posted straight ahead over grassy or sandy land,
on which the irons left clear traces. But within a mile and a half of
the sandpit the track was lost.

Arthur Graydon drove in his patrol-flag beside the last marks which
could be found, and ordered his scouts to separate and swing round in a
wide circle until the line was picked up again.

The tracks had ended beside the wide high-road which cross