he key, will you?"

At this there was a general laugh mingled with shouts from a dozen or so
volunteers:

"I'll go with you!"

"Take me?"

"I'm in on that!"

"I was just going to suggest it!"

"Yes you were--not!"

"Wait till morning," said Scoutmaster Ned.

"It can't be done," said Nick in a funny, sober way; "a scout is
supposed to have his sleep, that's the most important rule of all, you
said so yourself. I can't sleep till I've had a squint at that cup. Come
on Fido, let's row over."

The scout called Fido had won his name because of his doglike
persistence in following trails. "That's me," he said, "I was just going
to propose it when you took the words out of my mouth."

"I'd like to see a photograph of anybody taking anything out of _your_
mouth," said Scoutmaster Ned. "Go ahead, the two of you; I wish your
people would send you both to a private school that opens up to-morrow.
Go on, get out of here. And don't wake us up when you come back."

"Thank you kindly," said Fido.

"The pleasure is mine," said Scoutmaster Ned.

CHAPTER XVI

FOOTPRINTS

So this, then, was the explanation of the bloodthirsty talk which the
mighty hero of the Bridgeboro troop had heard under the buffalo robe as
he emerged from the sweet realm of slumber in the automobile.

Pistols, killing, stealing and dead ones! To steal up to a bird and
_not_ kill it! To wake up if you are a dead one! To laugh with wholesome
scout humor at the silly gun play of the screen! To count the pistols in
William I. Smart's five reel thriller!

Alas, Scout Harris!

But we are not to accompany that redoubtable rescuer in his thrilling
flight. We are going to row across the lake in which the dying camp-fire
on the little island cast a golden flicker, into which the oars held by
our new acquaintance, Nick Vernon, dipped silently and rose dripping as
his practiced arms drew the boat through the water, causing a musical
little ripple at its bow.

"Got the key?" Fido asked.

"Do you suppose I'd come away without it?"

"Pull a little on your left. I can just make out the shed. There
isn't,--yes there is, there's just one light in the town."

"That's Algernon Kirkendall studying his algebra," said Nick.

"It's just in line with the shed. Row straight for the light and we'll
hit the shore just right. I'll lift this seat and steer with it.
Crinkums, it's dark on the water, isn't it?"

So the algebra was of some use in the world af