“Even strangers on the street grinned at us and acted friendly just because we were Cubs,” Dan added. “How do you explain the sudden change?”
“I don’t know, but I have a hunch—” Brad began, only to allow his voice to trail off.
A large blue automobile rounded the corner, taking the main highway toward Webster City. Both Brad and Dan recognized the driver as Paul Silverton.
“There he is now!” Brad exclaimed. “Maybe he’s driving back to his office.”
“Let’s trail him there, and have this thing out,” Chips urged. “We ought to catch him, if we hike right back to Webster City.”
Brad however, had a better idea. Knowing that Mr. Silverton might go to his home rather than the office, he suggested that they wait fifteen minutes, and then telephone for an appointment.
“That’s the ticket!” approved Dan.
As the Cubs loitered around the village streets, they became increasingly aware of unfriendly stares directed toward them. While not everyone they met seemed hostile, now and then they were scrutinized with an intent gaze which made them uncomfortable.
“Have we got measles or something?” Red muttered.
“Someone has been doing us dirt in this town,” Brad volunteered his opinion. “And I have a hunch who it is too!”
“Saul Dobbs?” Dan demanded.
“I’m not making any accusations just yet. After we’ve talked to Mr. Silverton we may have the answer. Come on, let’s make that telephone call.”
Seeking another drugstore at the edge of the village, the Cubs dialed the number of Mr. Silverton’s office. Again they were informed he had not returned.
Brad next called the sportsman’s home. Finally, after considerable delay, he heard Mr. Silverton on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Silverton,” he began, in his eagerness, talking too rapidly. “I’m sorry to bother you at your home, but there’s an important matter the Cubs feel should be straightened out. It’s about visiting your pheasant farm—”
“You’re one of those boys who came to my office?”
“Yes, I’m Brad Wilbur.”
“Well, get this!” said Mr. Silverton speaking with biting accent “Your privileges are at an end! Now don’t bother me again!”
“Mr. Silverton, let me explain,” Brad said quickly. “I assure you we didn’t deliberately break our promise—”
“You’ll explain nothing to me,” the sportsman replied. “I’ve seen quite enough of your behavior. The Cubs may consider themselves lucky if I don’t notify their parents and the police!”
And with that remark, Mr. Silverton slammed the telephone receiver.
Brad, bewildered by the tongue lashing he had received, called the telephone number again. But Mr. Silverton would not answer.
“What did he say, Brad?” Dan demanded as the Den Chief turned to face the group of Cubs.
“Plenty! We’re to stay away from the farm.”
“It’s just like we thought,” Chips declared. “Old Dobbs got to him first and gave him a line about us.”
“I guess so,” Brad nodded gloomily. “Silverton said we could consider ourselves lucky that he hadn’t notified our parents or the police.”
“The police!” Dan burst out. “How does he figure? Even if we did make a mistake and go into the restricted area of the farm, that’s no crime! He couldn’t turn us over to Juvenile Court authorities for that, could he?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Brad said, frowning. “But there may be more to this than appears on the surface.”
“Meaning what?” demanded Red.
“Well, I don’t know. That’s what bothers me. Mr. Silverton acted as if we had done something serious. And you’ve noticed how the townsfolk here act toward us.”
“Dobbs may have been telling them tales too!” Chips said bitterly. “Why don’t we have it out with that bird?”
“If only we could see Mr. Silverton face to face, maybe we could make him understand,” Dan ventured. “Any chance he’ll talk to us?”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Brad. “He slammed the receiver and now he won’t answer the ’phone.”
Leaving the drugstore, the four boys crossed the bridge and started on the long walk back to Webster City. Their spirits depressed, they had little to say.
Chips and Red were inclined to feel slightly abused. On the other hand, Brad and Dan were worried because all the Cubs had been blamed for an innocent mistake. Without question, unless the matter were cleared up, the reputation of Den 2 would severely suffer.
At Denwood Avenue, Red and Chips took leave of their companions, going to their separate homes. Brad and Dan continued toward the residential section of Brandon Heights.
“Mr. Silverton lives somewhere in this part of the city, doesn’t he?” Dan asked thoughtfully.
“256 Eagle Road,” Brad replied, recalling the number from having read it in the telephone directory.
“That’s only two streets from here. Brad, why don’t we go there and try to see him?”
“Again?” Brad kicked a pebble across the sidewalk. “What’s the use?”
“Well, I hate to give up,” Dan said doggedly. “If we’d actually done anything so bad, I’d be in favor of taking our medicine as Dobbs said. But Silverton at least ought to listen to our side of the story.”
“All right, we can try,” Brad consented, though without enthusiasm. “Maybe if we tell him about that log jam, he’ll soften up a bit.”
Two blocks farther on, the boys came to Eagle Road, an exclusive residential street in which the homes were few and far apart. High above the river valley, the large dwellings overlooked the business section of the city.
Mr. Silverton’s home near the end of the winding street, was hemmed in behind a tall privet hedge which half-hid a view of the handsome 15-room brick home. At the rear was a rose garden.
“Nice little shack Mr. Silverton has here,” Dan observed, impressed.
“A butler probably will answer the door and say his master regrets he cannot see us,” Brad declared as he unlatched the front gate.
But in walking up to the porch, Dan spied Mr. Silverton at the west side of the yard, talking to a gardener who was weeding a flower bed.
“We’re in luck, Brad!” he exclaimed. “There he is now!”
The wealthy sportsman saw the boys as they crossed the lawn. Straightening up from the flower bed, he regarded them with cold disapproval.
“Mr. Silverton, we apologize for intruding,” Brad said. “We wouldn’t have come, only we want to clear up the misunderstanding.”
“As far as I am concerned, there is no misunderstanding,” Mr. Silverton answered, starting toward the house. “I understand only too well.”
“Saul Dobbs prejudiced you against us,” Dan accused, following after the sportsman, who plainly intended to walk away from the pair.
“Prejudiced me?” Mr. Silverton paused and turned angrily toward Brad and Dan. “I saw the evidence with my own eyes!”
“Evidence?” Brad caught him up. “You mean footprints in the restricted area?”
“I mean dead pheasants. Two of my most valuable cocks imported from Burma were killed!”
“When, sir?” gasped Brad, stunned by the disclosure.
“Saul Dobbs found them yesterday not far from the creek.”
“Surely you don’t think the Cubs had anything to do with it,” said Dan in quick protest.
For reply, Mr. Silverton dug into the pocket of his sports jacket and brought forth a tarnished badge bearing the design of a wolf with two pointed ears.
“This was found close to the two dead pheasants,” he informed cuttingly. “Recognize it?”
“A wolf rank badge,” Brad admitted. “Maybe it’s the one Red lost.”
“Furthermore,” Mr. Silverton went on, “Dobbs has been making a check of the pheasants. A large number of the common variety seem to be missing. Some may have flown over the fences, but others have been taken.”
“You can’t accuse the Cubs of that!” Brad said, beginning to lose control of his temper. “After all, we were only there once, and no damage was done. Two of our Cubs by mistake entered the restricted area, but they did no harm.”
“No doubt you believe that to be true,” the sportsman said. “But this little badge proves otherwise. As I told you, it was found not far from the dead pheasants.”
“We saw no birds when we went after Chips and Red,” Brad recalled. “The pheasants must have died afterwards of a natural death.”
“Possibly so. But that’s neither here nor there. They died from having been jammed against some heavy object and bruised. Many of the tail feathers were missing.”
“Red and Chips wouldn’t have harmed any of the pheasants,” Dan insisted.
Mr. Silverton now seemed determined to bring the conversation to an end.
“How can you say what your friends did when they were out of your sight?” he demanded.
“Well, Chips and Red wouldn’t do a thing like that,” Dan said rather lamely. “After all, they’re Cubs.”
“And Cubs need feathers for Indian headgears!” Mr. Silverton retorted.
Having delivered this parting shot, he dropped the Wolf badge at Dan’s feet, and without another word, walked into the house.
Brad and Dan were too stunned by Mr. Silverton’s final accusation to make any attempt to follow him toward the house.
As they stood gazing after the sportsman, the gardener in an attempt to soften his employer’s dismissal, said kindly:
“Mr. Silverton’s out of sorts today, lads. It was a blow to him losing those pheasants. He sets great store by ’em.”
“We told him the truth,” Brad said, stooping to pick up the Wolf badge from the grass. “The Cubs never intended to break any rules. As for killing the pheasants—well, I can’t believe it!”
The gardener leaned comfortably on his hoe. “It’s like the boss said,” he observed. “You may be honest and square yourselves, but how can you vouch for your friends? You didn’t see what they did while they were alone?”
“No, but—”
“And showing those Indian feathers at the village the way they did,” the gardener went on. “Why, it was circumstantial evidence! When Dobbs told around that the Cubs had trespassed, it was only natural folks would put two and two together.”
“So that was what Mr. Silverton meant when he spoke of the Indian headdress,” Brad muttered. “And it explains why the villagers gave us such icy looks today! The Cubs are in Dutch everywhere.”
“It makes me sick,” Dan said in disgust. “Come on, Brad.”
Sunk in gloom, the two boys left the residential property, and with no destination in mind, went on down the street. The gardener’s words, together with Mr. Silverton’s accusations, now made everything plain.
The entire Cub organization had been incriminated on the basis of two pieces of evidence—the finding of the Wolf Cub badge near the dead pheasants, and the thoughtless display of the Indian headdress by Chips and Red.
“I knew those feathers would get us into trouble,” Brad remarked glumly. “And believe me, we’re really in the soup!”
“Brad, you don’t think—”
“That Chips or Red killed those birds for the feathers? No, I don’t, Dan. But Silverton’s accusation is serious. We’ve got to see Mr. Hatfield about this right away!”
The two boys, anxious to unburden themselves, sought Mr. Hatfield at Scout Headquarters. He listened attentively to the entire report, and then surprised them by saying:
“To tell you the truth, I’ve been a little afraid something like this would develop.”
“Then you knew about the dead pheasants?” Brad asked in amazement.
“No, but I noticed a few things at the pheasant farm which bothered me. By the way, you told Mr. Silverton about the log jam in the creek?”
Brad and Dan gazed at each other in disgust.
“I guess we’re just plain dumb,” Dan apologized. “We forgot about it.”
“Well, that’s not surprising, considering how upset you were about Mr. Silverton’s accusations,” the Cub leader said, reaching for his telephone.
“You’re calling Mr. Silverton now?” asked Brad.
“No, first I want to talk to Chips and Red again. I’ll ask them to come down here for a few minutes if they can.”
In response to the call from the Cub leader, the other two boys made a speedy trip downtown again. Mr. Hatfield, in the presence of the four, then asked Dan to repeat the accusations made against the Cubs by the pheasant farm owner.
“First, is this your badge?” he asked Red, showing him the one Brad had brought to the office.
“It sure is!” Red cried. “Where’d you find it?”
“Mr. Silverton picked it up on his farm near a couple of dead pheasants,” the Cub leader answered. “Red, serious accusations have been made against all the Cubs. I called you here to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Shoot!” invited Red, shifting his weight uneasily.
“You and Chips showed that Indian feather headdress around at the village and elsewhere?”
“Why, yes,” Red admitted. “I guess maybe we shouldn’t have picked up the feathers, but we didn’t see any harm in it at the time. We were kinda proud of the thing after we made it.”
“Now for the second question. You boys found the feathers lying on the ground?”
“We sure did, Mr. Hatfield. I hope you don’t think that either Chips or I would have taken them from live birds?”
“I’ll show you the very place we picked them up,” Chips added. “You can bet your life we didn’t go around plucking ’em out of live birds!”
“Considering that Mr. Silverton has told the Cubs to keep off his property, I’m afraid I won’t be able to see the place,” Mr. Hatfield said, smiling. “But I do accept your word.”
“How are we going to prove to other folks that we didn’t steal the feathers?” Red demanded. “First off, I’ll pitch that Indian headgear.”
“No, Red. The damage has been done. Hiding the headdress now would only tend to confirm suspicions.”
“You mean Chips and I can enter it in the Pack handicraft show? I’m not sure I’d want to after what’s happened.”
“There’s plenty of time to decide that later on,” Mr. Hatfield returned. He arose from his desk, a signal that the interview was at an end. “Meanwhile, I’ll see you all at the Indian Pow Wow tomorrow night.”
With the help of Mr. and Mrs. Holloway, the Den had planned its weekly meeting on an Indian theme. Midge and Fred had spent the better part of four days setting up a tepee in the Holloway back yard. The taut gunny sacking had been painted with gaudy colors in Indian designs.
“Hope it doesn’t rain again and ruin the job,” Midge remarked, as he surveyed his work.
Nearly all of the Cubs had finished their bows and arrows, and a few now were working on other items they hoped to enter in the Pack handicraft show.
Admittedly, the elaborate feather headdress made by Chips and Red, was by far the best article so far turned out by Den 2.
But while the two boys followed the Cub leader’s instructions and brought the headgear to the Pow Wow on the appointed night, they no longer were proud of their handiwork.
Though the other Cubs were careful to avoid the subject, everyone knew that the feathers had become a symbol of the uncleared charge hanging over their heads.
Entirely unknown to the Den members, Mr. Holloway and the Cub leader had tried without success to see Paul Silverton the previous day.
Through his secretary, the sportsman had sent word that he was “in conference” and could not be disturbed.
Determined that the unfortunate affair should not mar the Indian Pow Wow, Mr. Hatfield and Mr. Holloway made no mention of their failure to iron out differences.
By the time the parents of the Cubs began to arrive at the Holloways, a roaring Council fire was burning in the beach area near where the Indian tepee had been set up.
At a smaller fire, some distance away, Mrs. Holloway stirred a huge kettle of fragrant stew which would be served after the ceremony.
The tomtoms presently burst into life, and Sam Hatfield, garbed in an Indian blanket, took the center of the circle.
Relating the story of Akela, chief of the Webelos Tribe, he told of the strength and wisdom of the great leader’s father, “Arrow of Light,” and of his mother, “Kind Eyes.”
“From the Wolf of the forest, Akela learned the language of the earth,” he told the listening Cubs. “And from the Bears, he acquired the secret names of the trees and the calls of the birds. Courage he learned from the Lion.”
Mr. Hatfield then explained that the Webelos tribal name had an inner meaning which in the organization signified progress from Wolf rank, through Bear and Lion classification to the ultimate goal of full fledged Scout.
“We-be-lo-s,” he repeated, spelling it slowly. “Loyal we’ll be.”
“And what does ‘Arrow of Light’ signify?” inquired Mack.
“Progress toward good citizenship. Cubs, like the Indians of old, must be self-controlled, loyal, game and quiet—willing to talk little and listen much.”
“If our Cubs live up to the rules—if they are square and game—our Den will be respected and make its influence felt in the community,” added Mr. Suell, one of the Den fathers.
The first part of the program completed, he then told the Cubs of an exciting trip he recently had taken to Mesa Verde National Park, site of the cliff dwellers.
The Cubs asked a great many questions and examined pottery and blankets which Mr. Suell had brought back from the Indian country. After that, Fred, Mack and Dan put on an Indian ceremonial dance, characterized by more energy than grace.
Presently the Pow Wow concluded with all the Den members forming a “living circle.” In close formation, facing inward, each Cub grasped the thumb of the boy on his left, raising right hand high in the two-finger Cub sign.
Up and down like a pump handle went their hands as the boys shouted: “Akela, we’ll do our Best!”
At the word “Best,” all the Cubs snapped smartly into salutes.
“Now for grub!” shouted Red, breaking away. “That stuff in the kettle sure smells good!”
“Lead me to it,” yelled Chips.
Dan and Brad circulated among the parents, waiting until everyone had been served before they took their helpings of stew.
In the chill night air, the hot food exactly hit the spot. Time after time, the Cubs went back for more until the big kettle was nearly empty.
Brad and Dan sat slightly apart from the others, their faces splashed with firelight. They were silently staring out across the dark river, when Mr. Hatfield, coming up behind them, touched their shoulders.
“Don’t say anything to the other Cubs,” he warned in a low tone. “Just follow me to the beach.”
“What’s up?” Brad asked in surprise.
“I’ll tell you at the beach.”
Wondering why the Cub leader was acting so mysteriously, the pair quickly put aside their plates, and joined him at the dock. To their further surprise, Mr. Hatfield began to untie the dinghy.
“What’s doing?” Brad asked again.
“That’s exactly what I propose to find out,” Mr. Hatfield replied. “A few minutes ago, I heard a car turn down into the old logging road.”
“Near Silverton’s place?” Dan interposed.
“Yes, at least I think the car was on the logging road. And I’m quite certain I saw a flashing light on Mr. Silverton’s property.”
“Then I was right the other night about that flashing light!” Dan cried. “Are you going to investigate?”
“Figured I might row up the river and look around. Want to ride along?”
“We sure do,” Brad declared, stepping into the boat.
“I’ve already told your parents not to expect you home for an hour,” the Cub leader said as he shoved off. “I have my car here and will drop you off at your homes after we get back.”
Few lights showed along the dark shore as Mr. Hatfield silently plied the oars. The boat spurted along, propelled by powerful strokes. Nearby, a sizeable fish leaped from the swift moving water, and fell back with a splash.
Hunched into their jackets, Dan and Brad speculated upon what the Cub leader might expect to see or find once they reached the old logging road.
“Maybe we have no business going there,” Mr. Hatfield said presently, swerving the boat toward shore, “but I figure it this way. The Cubs are under suspicion, and it’s up to us to clear our name if we can.”
“You think someone may be sneaking into Silverton’s place at night and taking pheasants?” Dan guessed. “Then we get the blame!”
“It’s an angle I intend to investigate,” Mr. Hatfield admitted. “In looking around though, we’ll have to respect Mr. Silverton’s order not to trespass.”
“In that case, it may not be easy to learn anything,” Brad said, a little disappointed.
Without replying, the Cub leader eased the boat in until it grated on the beach. Brad and Dan leaped out into the wet sand, and with Mr. Hatfield’s aid, pulled the craft well beyond reach of the greedy waves.
The three hid the oars in a clump of bushes and set off at a fast walk toward the exit of the old logging road.
As they approached the log fence barrier, Dan suddenly halted.
“Say, isn’t that a car coming out of the road now?” he demanded.
In the obscure light shed by a half moon, they saw a shadowy figure replacing the removable rails of the fence opening. Another man sat behind the wheel of a station wagon which had passed through to the main highway.
“Come on!” Mr. Hatfield urged the Cubs, hastening his step. “Let’s see who they are before they drive away!”
However, as he spoke, the man at the fence suddenly abandoned his effort to replace the rail. Allowing it to drop to the ground, he moved swiftly to the waiting station wagon and scrambled in.
With a roar of the engine, the station wagon pulled away.
“Quick! See if you can read the license number!” Mr. Hatfield exclaimed, turning the beam of his flashlight on the rear plate.
“Can’t make it out,” Brad muttered. “The plate is covered with mud. Maybe on purpose.”
“I thought the first two letters were WA,” Dan said. “Couldn’t be sure though.”
Mr. Hatfield went over to the rail fence.
“That car may have had a right to be on Silverton’s property,” he commented as he stooped to lift the loose rail into place. “All the same, I didn’t like the way those fellows rushed off when they saw us coming.”
“They were up to something, all right,” declared Dan. “They acted as if they were afraid we’d see them.”
An automobile whizzed past on the main highway, its bright headbeam momentarily illuminating the logging road exit.
Dan bent to tie a dangling shoelace. In stooping, he noticed a small piece of cardboard lying by the railing almost at his feet.
Absently he picked it up, thinking that it looked a little like a railroad ticket check. Then his interest quickened.
“Say, turn on your flashlight a minute, Mr. Hatfield!” he exclaimed. “I think I’ve found something!”
The bright beam of Mr. Hatfield’s flashlight revealed the torn half of a shipping tag from a freight shipment. Of recent date, it bore the destination of Malborne.
“Malborne is a city of about 500,000 population to the east of here,” the Cub leader remarked.
Disappointed, Dan dropped the tag to the ground. “I guess this isn’t anything after all,” he said.
“No, wait, Dan!” Mr. Hatfield retrieved the torn ticket. “This may have been dropped by one of the men in the station wagon. As a clue, it doesn’t mean much now, but later on, it might.”
Carefully, the Cub leader placed the soiled scrap of cardboard in his jacket pocket.
“How do you figure all this?” Brad asked earnestly. “Do you think those men, whoever they are, may be stealing pheasants and maybe shipping them out of here?”
“Could be, Brad. At any rate. I’m convinced Mr. Silverton doesn’t know this road is being used at night.”
“I wish we could keep watch and find out who comes here,” Dan proposed. “Maybe the Cubs could divide up into pairs and take turns staying here.”
“All night? Afraid your parents wouldn’t approve, Dan.”
“Whoever comes, seems to arrive fairly early in the evening,” Brad pointed out. “These summer nights it doesn’t get dark until about nine o’clock.”
“So you’re siding with Dan?” Mr. Hatfield said, chuckling.
“The Cubs would get a big kick out of keeping watch of this place, sir. Even if they only kept a daytime patrol.”
“We might learn something at that,” Mr. Hatfield conceded. “Well, I’ll talk to the fathers of the Cubs to see what they say. Meanwhile, let’s forget about that station wagon.”
As the three rowed downstream to the Holloway cabin a little later, they noticed that the moon again was veiled by dark clouds. Even as they reached the dock, a few splatters of rain stirred the water.
“Here it comes again,” Mr. Hatfield sighed. “This has been one of the wettest seasons in my recollection.”
By the time the three reached the dock, everyone except Mr. and Mrs. Holloway and their son had left the cabin. By then, rain was coming down steadily.
Brad and Dan, already wet through, made a dash for Mr. Hatfield’s car.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Holloway and the other fathers tomorrow,” the Cub leader promised, starting the motor. “If this rain keeps on, we won’t be able to do anything for a day or two in any event.”
The rains continued. Although not heavy enough to occasion alarm as to the level of the river, the Cubs were kept indoors.
For want of an occupation, Dan spent much time swimming at the “Y”. He worked on the official buckskin record of Den meetings, bringing it up to date. And he completed a stamp album which he intended to show in the hobby and handicraft exhibit planned by the Pack.
After that, confinement began to fret him. On the third day when he came downstairs for breakfast, his first act was to glare at the weather report in the morning paper.
“For crying out loud!” he complained bitterly. “More rain, the man says. Can you feature that?”
“Perhaps it’s a long range forecast,” his mother said encouragingly. “The sun seems to be straggling through the clouds.”
“It does look brighter,” Dan admitted, willing to hope. “Maybe it will clear up in a couple of weeks.”
By the time he had finished breakfast, the sun actually was shining. Greatly encouraged, Dan went outside to inspect the garden. He was intently studying a worm wriggling across the sidewalk, when a car stopped at the curb.
“Hi, there, Dan!” called Mr. Hatfield cheerily. “Wet enough for you?”
Dan grinned with pleasure and went over to the car to talk to the Cub leader.
“I’m about ready to blow my top!” he told Mr. Hatfield. “Three days now with nothing to do!”
“It’s been tough, Dan. The other Cubs feel the same way. Itching for something to do. But rain or shine, we’ll have our regular Den meeting Friday night at the cabin?”
“Meanwhile?”
“Well, if it weren’t so wet, we might start that patrol at the old logging road.”
“You mean we can do it?” Dan cried, his face cracking into a smile.
“I talked to most of the fathers. They’re in favor of doing anything we can to prove that the Cubs had nothing to do with killing those pheasants.”
“When can we start, Mr. Hatfield?”
“That’s for the Cubs to decide. Not much use in keeping watch too early in the day. Midge’s father thought we might go on duty about four in the afternoon and stay until after dark. One of the fathers will keep the boys company on the last shift.”
“May we start this afternoon?” Dan demanded eagerly.
“The woods are rather wet, don’t you think?”
“We could put on slickers and boots. Anyway, the sun’s out again. The ground will dry some before afternoon.”
“All right,” Mr. Hatfield consented. “If it doesn’t rain any more, find another Cub and go out there at four o’clock. I’ll send someone to relieve you by six.”
“Oh, thanks, Mr. Hatfield!”
“You may not thank me by the time your stint is finished,” the Cub leader laughed as he shifted gears. “It will be a tedious grind, and probably a fruitless one. Oh, yes, one thing! Keep out of sight, and be careful about leaving a lot of tracks.”
“We’ll defeat our purpose if anyone learns we’re watching the road.”
“Right. Well, good luck, Dan. I don’t look for anything to develop today, but starting the patrol will keep the Cubs out of mischief at least.”
Elated at the prospect of action, Dan immediately busied himself on the telephone. First he called Brad, but the Den Chief was helping his father with work about the house and could not make the trip to the woodland.
“I’ll take my stint tomorrow,” Brad promised.
Red, next on Dan’s list, begged off because he had the start of a cold. In the end it was Chips who agreed to go with him.
From the start, however, the vigil bored Chips. He disliked staying out of sight in the bushes near the old logging road exit, and he fretted at inactivity.
“You stay here and keep watch,” he directed Dan. “I think I’ll wander around and look for different types of leaves to press and mount in a scrapbook.”
“Nothing doing,” Dan promptly vetoed the idea. “We stick together.”
“But I’m tired of hunching under these hot, bug-eaten bushes! No one’s come here in broad daylight and you know it!”
“We don’t know when that station wagon may return, Chips. We’ve got to develop patience.”
“You and your preachy talk! It won’t do any harm to move around a little. My legs are getting cramped.”
“Mr. Hatfield said we’d defeat our purpose if we walk around and leave a lot of footprints. Especially when the ground is soft.”
“I’ll start sprouting roots if I sit here any longer,” Chips complained. He slapped angrily at a mosquito which buzzed around his head. “How long are we supposed to stay here?”
“I’m sticking until relieved. If you’re soft and want to pull out, go ahead.”
Dan waited, but Chips made no move to depart.
“Well, Chips?”
“Oh, you know I’ll suffer it out,” the boy muttered. “Quit rubbing it in!”
After that Chips made no further complaint, though at intervals he twisted and squirmed and emitted loud groans which startled a gray squirrel in the tree overhead.
Throughout the long watch, not a person was seen nor a sound heard on the old logging road. In the bush shelter near the barrier, the two cubs passed the time by counting cars which traveled on the main highway. Even Dan became a bit careless, making less effort to keep out of sight.
Then suddenly he was startled to hear approaching footsteps. Quickly he drew back into the leaves, pulling Chips with him.
As the two Cubs waited, Saul Dobbs came into view. He walked to the barrier gate and stood there for a few minutes, one foot on the lower rail, gazing up and down the road.
“He’s looking for someone,” Dan whispered.
“Mr. Silverton maybe.”
“Silverton wouldn’t use this old logging road, Chips. Not with that fine car of his.”
Dobbs stood a moment longer at the gate, and then taking an old envelope and a pencil stub from his pocket, scribbled a message.
The Cubs saw him spear the paper on the barrier fence. However, the breeze fluttered it to the ground.
Picking up the message, Dobbs reread it and appeared to hesitate. To the bitter disappointment of Chips and Dan, he then tore it to pieces and thrust the scraps into his pocket.
“Wonder why he did that?” Chips whispered.
Dan motioned for his companion to be quiet. Dobbs had turned and now was coming directly toward their hiding place.
Unexpectedly, the man halted, staring at something on the road. Dan and Chips felt their blood turn to ice cubes. For there on the moist ground were several footprints made from Chips’ shoe.
Dobbs stared long and hard at the imprints and gazed up and down the road. Apparently satisfied that no one had been in the vicinity recently, he finally turned and went off in the direction from which he had come.
“Whew! That was a close call!” Chips muttered when it again was safe to speak aloud. “I see what you mean now about leaving tracks, Dan. We doggone near gave ourselves away.”
“In the future we’ll have to be even more careful. And we’d better warn the other Cubs too. Wonder why Dobbs tore up that note after he wrote it?”
“He acted as if he were expecting someone and wanted to leave ’em a message. Just our bad luck he changed his mind.”
“Anyway, our day hasn’t been wasted after all,” Dan declared.
Time wore on uneventfully. Finally at six o’clock, the two Cubs spied Fred and Mack coming up the pavement at a leisurely pace.
Slipping from their hiding place, they greeted them with intense relief.
“Anything doing here?” Fred inquired.
Dan related how they had seen Saul Dobbs at the gate.
“Nothing so strange in that,” Mack commented. “After all, this road runs through Mr. Silverton’s property.”
“The only queer part was that he wrote a note to someone and then tore it up,” Dan pointed out. “It was almost as if he thought it over and decided it was risky business—that someone might find it.”
“He nearly found us,” Chips cut in. “Better be careful in leaving footprints on this road.”
“How long will you stay here?” Dan asked the two newcomers as he and Chips prepared to leave.
“Mr. Hatfield said we could take over until eight o’clock,” Mack answered. “Then he and Midge’s father will watch for awhile.”
“Lucky guys,” grinned Chips. “Especially if the mosquitoes are in biting trim!”
For the next two days, the Cubs took turns watching the exit of the old logging road. Though they remained faithful to their assignment, the novelty began to wear off and the task became increasingly tedious.
True, the Cubs developed a certain technique for making time pass more quickly. Working always in pairs, they brought books, magazines, and an occasional card game with them to the hide-out in the brush.
Even so, a two-hour vigil seemed endless. Mosquitoes were a constant torment, and nothing ever seemed to happen.
After his initial appearance, Saul Dobbs did not return again to the exit of the logging road. Nor did they glimpse the mysterious station wagon which had so intrigued their interest.
“Maybe it was an accident it came down this road the other night,” Brad said late one afternoon as he and Dan were taking their trick together. “It’s a cinch it’s not coming back. We’ve wasted our time.”
“I’m beginning to think so too,” Dan replied in a discouraged voice. “Gosh, this place is like a steam bath!”
“The worst it’s been since we took over,” Brad agreed.
The afternoon had turned unusually hot and sultry. Not a leaf stirred in the trees overhead. Wiping the perspiration from his face, Dan got up to stretch his half-paralyzed legs.
Through the gap in the trees overhead, he could see only a tiny patch of sky which seemed to be darkening.
“Looks like another rain cooking up,” he observed.
“Cripes! Not again!” Brad moaned, peering up at the overcast sky. “If this keeps on, I’m going to build myself an Ark.”
“Better start the carpenter work then, Brad. It sure looks like rain. And she’s coming up fast this time.”
Moving out of their shelter the better to view the sky, the two boys were somewhat alarmed to note that a large black cloud was rolling in fast from the west.
“That means rain and a hard one,” Brad said. “Think we ought to strike out for home?”