of delight at the idea, and sprang with the utmost
eagerness to search for the track of the rogue who had stolen the
basket. The Wolves took one side of the pit, the Ravens the other, and
began to look out closely for any mark of a foot entering or leaving
the place. Almost at once a Wolf's howl was raised. Harry Maurice had
found the mark of a heavy nailed boot, which had scored the sharply
rising slope at the southern end of the pit. The mark was fresh, and
led out of the hollow, and it seemed very likely that it was the trail
of the thief.

The patrol-leaders took it up and raced along it, with their scouts at
their heels.

For a quarter of a mile it was followed as easily as possible, for the
ground was broken and sandy; then the trail ran on to short, close
turf, and was lost. The patrol flags were driven in, and the band
spread out on a broad front, and carefully advanced, searching for the
spoor. No. 5 of the Ravens hit on it well away to the right, where the
marauder had set his foot on a mole-heap in the turf, and left a clear
track of his big, square hob-nails.

'Kar-kaw! Kar-kaw!' The call gathered everyone to the spot, and the
leaders were agreed that it was the right track. And again they spread
out on a new front, for the trail was once more lost on hard, crisp
turf.

This time it was not eyesight, but smell, which put the pursuers on the
track of their quarry. Chippy had gone some distance ahead on the
probable line, and Dick was near at hand. Suddenly Chippy lifted his
head and sniffed at the air, his nostrils working like a hound's on hot
scent.

'What is it, Chippy?' said Dick, who had noticed his companion's
movement.

'Bacca,' said Chippy briefly. 'Right ahead! Come on!'

'Yes; I can smell it now,' said Dick, as they ran forward. 'It's
coming down the wind.'

The two patrol-leaders burst through a bramble-thicket, stopped dead,
and raised with all the force of their lungs their patrol cries; for
they had run their man to earth. There, straight below them, in a
little hollow, sitting on the stump of an old thorn, and peacefully
smoking, was a man with their basket set before him, its contents
rolled out on the grass.

'Why, it's a big, dirty tramp!' said Dick.

'Yus,' agreed Chippy. 'It's a Weary Waddles, right enough. Now we'll
get 'im on the 'op.'

Up dashed Wolves and Ravens, and there was no need for their leaders to
say a word: the situation explained itself.