Germans. The neighborhood was very quiet and very dark, save for the
sounds caused by the breeze in those old wrecks of buildings. Every
rusty hinge and loose board and creaky joint seemed to contribute to
this dismal music. One might easily have imagined those dark, spectral
structures to be tenanted by the ghosts of dead soldiers.

"Why didn't you mention Quebec?" Roy asked. "Why didn't you ask him if
he had been there? That was the place named in the notice."

"That isn't what I was thinking about," Warde said. "I was reading in
the old scout handbook[2] how you can tell where people come from by
their talk. If a person belongs in Canada he'll say Monreal instead of
Montreal. He'll say Tranto instead of Toronto."

"Yes?" urged Roy, hopefully.

"That's all," Warde said. "He doesn't talk as if he came from up that
way. But the notice didn't say he belonged there, it only said he was
wanted there. The way he spoke about the robin was what got me. I can't
make him out at all."

"I guess the picture's the principal thing," Roy said despairingly.

"The principal thing is to wait a day or so," said Warde; "and see what
we can find out. It looks bad, that's sure. It's his picture as far as I
can see. I don't see how we're going to take his measurement; we don't
want to make him suspicious."

"It's funny how he never speaks about his past," said Roy.

"Anybody can see there's something funny about him," Warde said. "What
he said about the robin makes me think that if he committed a murder he
was probably crazy when he did it. Maybe he doesn't even remember that
he did it."

"You can't say he's crazy," Roy protested.

"I know I like him," Warde said; "I just can't help it. I like him now.
Maybe he isn't smart, but he's always thinking about us. He's for the
scouts good and strong. Maybe it's because he's so simple and
easy--maybe that's what makes me like him so much...."

For a few moments neither spoke. It seemed as if both were preoccupied
by pleasant memories of their friend. Weak, uncertain, queer he may have
been, and a failure into the bargain. Shabby and all that. But his smile
haunted them now; he had been their comrade, their friend, their
champion.

"Something always gets in the way when you try to swing a _big_
good turn," Roy mused.

"It takes Pee-wee to manage the big ones," said Warde.

"Poor kid," Roy said.

Again neither spoke. A loose board creaked somewhere in the darkness. A
crude little