ive the cooking facilities, you cannot do better than
flop a few rice cakes, watching carefully that they don't burn. You can
flop them with a shoe horn if you've nothing better at hand.

They spread their balloon silk tent in the cockpit, holding fast to the
corners until enough water had fallen into it to fill the coffee-pot,
and they had three such cups of coffee as you never fancied in your
fondest dreams.

For dessert they had "Silver Fox Slump," an invention of Roy's made with
chocolate, honey and, I think, horse-radish. It has to be stirred
thoroughly. Pee-wee declared that it was such a _table d'hote_ dinner as
he had never before tasted. He was always partial to the scout style of
cooking and he added, "You know how they have music at _table d'hote_
dinners. Well, this music's got it beat, that's one sure thing. Gee,
I'll hate to leave the boat, I sure will."

The boisterous music gave very little prospect of ceasing, and after the
three had talked for an hour or so, they settled down for the night, two
on the lockers and one on the floor, with the wind still moaning and the
rain coming down in torrents.

When they awoke in the morning the wind had died down somewhat, but it
still blew fitfully out of the east and the rain had settled down into
a steady drizzle. Tom ventured out into the cockpit and looked about
him. The hills across the river were gray in the mist and the wide
expanse of water was steel color. He could see now that there was
another road close under the precipitous cliffs and that the one which
divided this lowland from the river was almost awash. Through the mist
and drizzle along this higher road came a man. He left the road and
started to pick his way across the flat, hailing as he came. The three
boys awaited him in the cockpit.

"Don't nobody leave that boat!" he called, "or I'll shoot."

"Dearie me," said Roy. "He seems to be peeved. What are we up against,
anyway?"

"Don't shoot, mister," called Tom. "You couldn't drag us out of here
with a team of horses."

"Tell him we are Boy Scouts and fear naught," whispered Pee-wee. "Tell
him we scorn his--er--what d'you call it?"

"Hey, mister," called Roy. "We are Boy Scouts and fear naught, and we
scorn your what-d'you-call it."

"Haouw?" called the man.

"What's that he's got on?" said Tom, "a merit badge?"

"It's a cop's badge," whispered Pee-wee. "Oh, crinkums, we're pinched."

The man approached, dripping and breathing heavi