Roy and Westy, who stood nearest to him could read it plainly enough and see two pictures, profile and front face, which it displayed:

WANTED FOR MURDER FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS

REWARD WILL BE PAID BY THE POLICE OF QUEBEC, CANADA, FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THE ARREST AND CONVICTION OF CLAUDE DARRELL, ALIAS DARROW, ALIAS HICKY JOE, ETC., ETC. WANTED FOR

BURGLARY AND HOMICIDE.

Was last seen in New York where he tried to enlist for military service. Hair brown and straight. Complexion dark. Eyes gray.

Height 5 feet 10-1/2 inches. Weight about 140 pounds. Teeth white and even. May seek work as gasfitter. When last seen wore a gray suit with double breasted vest. Walks slightly sideways.

"Here's our bird all right," said Detective Ferrett with a cold vulgarity which made the scouts' blood boil. "This is that Quebec chap, wanted for murder. Here's an easy five thousand. Look at this, Chief; look at these pictures and then look at that face. O. K.? This is him or I'm a dub. Just wait till I measure this chap."

"Oh, you'll do nothing of the sort," said the surgeon briskly, and apparently not at all interested in Blythe's history or ident.i.ty. "He's not going to walk away. Just stand out of the way, gentlemen, this is an ambulance call."

A thrill of admiration pa.s.sed through several of the scouts as they heard this. "I'd--I'd--anyway I'd rather be a doctor than a detective,"

Pee-wee whispered.

"Well, it's all down on the paper here," said Detective Ferrett. "We've got him dead to rights. Aim for a goose and you hit a gander. This fellow's a red-handed thug from Canada. They've had the alarm out for him a couple of years. You kids never knew that, hey?" And by way of a pleasantry he hit Roy a rap with his bulging wallet. "We'll measure him up down yonder. The face is enough, but these specifications will clinch it."

"If you're after specifications," said Roy, "you might as well put down that he's got a scar on his left heel. It's an old one, about ten years old. And we're glad you were the one to discover him and you're welcome to your old five thousand dollars. We don't want it, do we, Westy?"

CHAPTER XXVII

SCOUT LAW NUMBER TWO

Then the scene of all their good times and of their broken hopes was quiet again, the ambulance and its attendant throng was gone, and the scouts were alone.

"Can you hike home with your ankle like that?" Grove Bronson asked Roy.

"Sure, we can take our time. If we get home by evening it's all right."

"It's going to be moonlight here to-night--full moon," Westy said.

"Let's get the cooking things packed first," Connie Bennett said. "Then we'll clear up."

"We might stay for one more camp-fire," Hunt Ward suggested, half-heartedly.

"It wouldn't seem the same," Artie said.

They had all realized that. Dorry Benton laid aside the several tools that he had gathered up and looked about as if wondering what to do next.

"He saved your life," Will Dawson said to Roy.

"Do you think I don't know that?" Roy replied, a little catch in his voice.

"Maybe if you--sort of--you know, if you save a life, maybe it makes up for taking one--" El Sawyer said. But it was plain that he did not quite believe that.

"He didn't do it," Pee-wee said stoutly. "Do you think I don't know? I don't care what--he didn't do it. He likes us an--and--I--I like him--I--"

"Don't, Kid, please don't," said Roy.

"Didn't I say we were going to have two desserts that day I stalked a hop-toad up at Temple Camp, and wasn't I right?" Pee-wee persisted. "So there. I can always tell. And if a fellow saved my life I wouldn't let anybody say he was a murderer, I wouldn't."

"You're a little brick, Kid," said Roy.

"A scout has got to be loyal, hasn't he?" Pee-wee shouted. "Let's hear you deny that. You can bet your life I wouldn't have any murderers saving my life. I don't care about the Dominion Clothing Company or anybody else. If you say he killed anybody, _he didn't;_ that's all I say. A scout has tuition."

"You mean intuition, Kid?" Westy laughed.

"I don't care about signs or anything," Pee-wee stoutly protested; "and I don't care for detectives either. Do you think I can't tell a murderer? Everything can turn out to be something different, can't it? I can prove it by the movies."

Warde Hollister stepped up to him and slapped his shoulder. "You're one bully little scout, Kid," he said. Warde seemed almost converted by Pee-wee's inspiring, unreasoning loyalty.

"Sometimes I agree with you, Kid," he said. "And then again--"

"I agree with myself all the time," Pee-wee said; "and I don't care who agrees with me."

"One thing I'm glad of," Westy said, "and that is that somebody else gets the money; let them have all the credit, too. We had our fun while it lasted," he added wistfully. "And I'm glad Warde didn't count that trip for his first cla.s.s badge. I'm glad we don't have anything to do with the bad side of it. It seems now just as if a friend had died, that's all."

"I kind of hope he does die," Grove Bronson said.

"Just after being a hero," Connie added.

This was too much for Roy. It brought poor Blythe's heroism and his own rescue home to him with vivid force, his eyes filled and everything about the old familiar scene glistened.

"Come on, let's get ready," he finally said. "Let's get away from here."

They could not share Pee-wee's staunch conviction; they doubted whether Pee-wee really did agree with himself in this matter. But they admired him none the less for that.

Disconsolately they set about clearing up and gathering their belongings. It seemed strange that one so quiet and un.o.btrusive as poor Blythe could be so keenly missed. Now that he was gone they could see nothing but pathetic reminders of him, the old grocery box he sat on at camp-fire, the box in which he put old nails; above all, the windmill where he had suffered that inexplicable brainstorm in the night. As for Roy, who owed his life to their strange friend, he could not regain any measure of his former spirits, nor even put a brave front to the disappointment as the others did. He limped about, silent and crestfallen.

In the mid-afternoon they started on their hike back to Bridgeboro, a cheerless group. Before going out between the old gateposts they turned for a last glimpse of the scene of their pleasant camping and working adventure. Only a few uprights of one shack remained. The accident had done the work of a day in ten seconds. There was the charred area where their mighty fire had been. And further off was the gaunt tower of the windmill, its big fan revolving slowly, the only remaining thing suggestive of life in the desolated camp.

"I suppose we could get the money for our work, maybe," Westy said.

"We don't want any money," said Hunt Ward of the Elks. "All I want is to get back to our old car down by the river. We don't want any rewards and we don't want any pay and we don't want any merits or rank badges or anything on account of being here."

"It seems kind of like a dream now," Artie said.

"You never can tell how some dreams will come out," said Pee-wee. "Once I had a dream that I was a murderer and when I woke up I found I wasn't a murderer at all."

"That's one thing we like about you," said Roy with a poor attempt at his old bantering spirit.

"What's that?" Pee-wee asked.