THE MYSTERY AT CAMP LENAPE

CARL SAXON
Author of “Blackie Thorne at Camp Lenape”

BOOKS, INC.
NEW YORK BOSTON

COPYRIGHT 1940, 1931 BY BOOKS, INC.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

I. [Battle-Royal] 7 II. [Sherlock on the Trail] 16 III. [The Midnight Man] 27 IV. [The Arm] 35 V. [In the Name of the Law] 44 VI. [Braves in Council] 55 VII. [News and More News] 65 VIII. [The Disappearing Act] 75 IX. [Off for Pebble Beach] 87 X. [The Man in Blue Again] 96 XI. [The Lair of the Enemy] 104 XII. [A Daring Resolve] 112 XIII. [The Trunk Room] 122 XIV. [So Long, Lenape!] 131 XV. [Four in the Forest] 141 XVI. [Hare and Hounds] 152 XVII. [Jerry Gets a Ride] 162 XVIII. [The Gypsy Van] 174 XIX. [Shots on the Highway] 183 XX. [The Last Trap] 193 XXI. [The Secret of the Lodge] 203 XXII. [Brotherly Love] 214

THE MYSTERY AT CAMP LENAPE

CHAPTER I
BATTLE-ROYAL

The Utway twins were at it again.

“You are, too!” said Jake.

“You’re another!” said Jerry.

“And you’re his brother!” said Jake.

It was “quiet hour” in Camp Lenape. The peace of Sunday afternoon hung above the rows of white tents on the hillside above the placid lake. In Tent Ten, however, the quiet was broken by a sudden uproar.

Six wide-awake lads perched on upper bunks, grinning and nudging each other. All eyes were turned on two bronze-haired, blue-eyed, sun-browned boys who faced each other in the center of the tent.

As they stood thus, it seemed as if there was only one boy, looking at himself in a large mirror; for the Utway twins were so much alike that others often wondered how one of them knew whether he was himself, or his brother—whether Jerry did not sometimes wake in the morning and think for a moment that he might possibly be Jake. The resemblance was heightened by the fact that both wore identical outfits—the basketball shorts and green-and-white jersey that served as the camp uniform.

However, while Jerry wore a tennis sneaker on each foot, Jake wore only one. The other shoe he brandished in an upraised arm with a threatening air.

“That’s talking,” put in “wild Willie” Sanders, from his perch above the two brothers. “You tell him, Jake!”

Jake turned on the speaker. “No noise from the nickel seats!” he warned. “This is our business—no butting in. Now, Jerry, take back what you said.”

“Well, take back what you said!” responded Jerry with some spirit. “And quit aiming that shoe at me! Put it down!”

“Keep off!”

The band of onlookers, now reinforced by the grinning faces of many inmates of neighboring tents, chuckled with delight. It looked as if there was going to be a fight at last. And the watchers knew from past experience that if the Utway twins got to scrapping again, the resulting action would do much to brighten up a dull Sunday afternoon. Therefore they waited happily for the first gong of the coming battle.

It looked as though Jerry meant business. With a swift rush he attempted to snatch the menacing shoe from his brother’s hand. Jake neatly dodged, and swung the improvised weapon in a dangerous arc. His fingers slipped on the smooth rubber of the sole, and the shoe hurled itself with some force at Jerry’s chest.

Jerry grunted as the flying sneaker took him in the midriff. He was not hurt, but he was mad. He had forgotten completely what the original quarrel was about; he knew that the shoe had been flung by accident, but didn’t care; all he thought of was to “get even” with Jake. He snatched the nearest thing at hand, which happened to be a canteen belonging to little Pete Lister, and flung it wildly at his brother.

Jake dodged again, and returned this fire with an unwieldy missile that proved to be Fat Crampton’s generously-built raincoat. This went wild of the mark, and he ducked a whizzing flashlight while at the same time reaching about for more ammunition. His hand touched “Sherlock” Jones’s camera-case, and he was about to aim this at Jerry’s head when he was taken full in the face with a canvas pillow, followed by a sweater and a Boy Scout Handbook.

“Hey!” cried Jones, jumping down from his bunk in alarm, now that his treasured possession was in danger, “that’s my camera-case you got!”

The contested object sailed past his ear and met its mark on Jerry’s leg. By this time Jerry was in no frame of mind to distinguish friend from enemy. He was seeing red, and the sight of young Jones dashing toward him to regain his property raised his temper to the boiling point. He reached out and greeted the oncoming boy with the contents of a handy water-bucket.

The bucket was half full, sufficient to make a drenching torrent which reduced the hapless Jones to a sopping state. His cry of rage filled the tent. Wild Willie Sanders came to his rescue, and together they advanced on Jerry, who was now armed with a loose tent-peg swinging on the end of its rope.

Jake had taken advantage of his momentary freedom from attack to gather together a goodly pile of ammunition—shoes, tennis rackets, pinecones, pillows, and an empty wasp’s nest which Lefkowitz had collected as a specimen. Chink Towner had entrenched himself on the top of a bunk, from which fortified position he was able now and then to swipe the tumbling combatants over the head with a pillow. Little Peter Lister managed to give Fat Crampton a timely shove which sent him rolling between the legs of his battling tent-mates.

Objects of all sorts, from baseball bats to cakes of soap, flew through the air and landed in the low bushes outside the tent. Battle-cries and shouts of the wounded rent the calm Sunday afternoon air.

The fight was no longer a private contest. The action had become general. A whirling shoe had landed on “Kipper” Dabney, aide of Tent Nine next door, and he had immediately led his cohorts in a vengeful sally against their warlike neighbors. Somebody had refilled the empty water-pail and was methodically doing his bit to make sure that not one of the combatants was left undrenched. A scouting party from Tent Five had raced downhill and were swiftly pulling the blankets from every bunk and tossing them into the huckleberry bushes. Tent Ten was a battleground of whirling arms, tumbling bodies, and flying weapons, whereon no one knew his friend, and every boy fought for himself.

“Stop!”

A shrill voice of command cut through the tumult. Unseen by the rioters, a short, erect man in scoutmaster’s uniform had appeared in their midst.

“Stop this at once! Put those things down! Attention!”

A boy on the outskirts of the group whistled in surprise. “Chickie! It’s Mr. Colby!” He dodged behind a tree and disappeared. Silently the boys from other tents faded from the scene, trying to look innocent and peaceful. In ten seconds the members of Tent Ten were left alone amid the ruins, under the stern gaze of Mr. Colby.

“Attention! Line up!”

Eight boys guiltily straightened, heels together.

“You, Utway, drop that baseball bat! Now, what’s the meaning of this?”

The councilor’s keen eyes flashed from one face to the next. The sudden uproar had brought him running from his place at the leaders’ meeting on the porch of the lodge. As officer of the day, it was his duty to take charge of the camp program, inspect the tents, and assign merit points for the conduct of each tent-group. He took his duties most seriously; a short period of service in the National Guard had given him a mighty respect for military discipline; and his strictness at all times was well-known at Lenape.

“Men, you are a disgrace!” he snapped. A few feathers from a ripped pillow sifted down and settled upon the brim of his hat, but not a boy dared to smile. “A disgrace! Now, who’s responsible for this?”

His searching eye caught sight of the twins, standing together at one end of the line. He well knew the reputation these husky brothers had for unladylike conduct, and twice before had found it necessary to separate them from each other’s grasp after sudden tussles. His lips tightened as he stopped before Jerry, whose relinquished baseball bat lay across his feet.

“You again, eh? Fighting with your brother, were you, Jake? Or Jerry, whichever you are?”

“Well, you see——”

“Never mind accusing anybody else! You’ll have to learn that camp is no place for continual bickering! Look at this tent! You’ve made hay of the whole place. I’ll make it my job to see that Tent Ten gets the booby can for this——” The councilor’s words were broken off short, and he fell back, clapping his hands to his head.

He had been standing directly under the front tent pole, and the oil lantern hanging there, which had somehow escaped being brought into the fray, had suddenly descended from its nail at the top of the pole and struck him full on the crown. The blow had been partly dulled by his stiff hat, but he was smarting with anger. His bristling gaze fell on the flushed face of Jake Utway, who stood beside the pole with defiance in his eyes.

“You—you did that, Utway! Don’t deny it!”

Jake did not deny it. He had taken this means of defending his brother from the full brunt of the guilt for the battle-royal.

“Well, why don’t you stop picking on Jerry? He wasn’t the only one to blame! All of us did some.”

“You—you——Both you boys are incorrigible! Now, listen! You two must put this tent in order at once—pick up everything, make all the beds, put everything in its place! If this is not done, I shall recommend that you serve ten hours apiece on the chain gang. No discipline—no discipline——”

Still rubbing his injured brow tenderly, the enraged scoutmaster rushed from the tent, not daring to trust his temper further.

The group relaxed. “Guess that’ll fix you guys for soaking me with all that water,” muttered Sherlock Jones. “Serves you right.”

“Shut up,” said Jerry rudely. “Say, Jake, thanks. He sure did look sad when that lantern bopped him! I knew right away you did it on purpose.”

“Aw, he was picking on you,” answered Jake. “That’s all right. He got even with us, though. It’s not going to be an easy job, cleaning up this mess. Let’s get busy. Come on, pick up those blankets.”

“You’re no cripple—pick ’em up yourself!”

“Pick ’em up, you lazy loafer!”

“Who’s a loafer?”

“You are!”

“You’re another!”

“And you’re his brother!”

The Utway twins were at it again.

CHAPTER II
SHERLOCK ON THE TRAIL

Sherlock Jones muttered vengefully to himself as he slowly stripped and removed his sopping clothes after the battle. Moodily he donned a dry outfit, pulled a sweater over his head, and stalked from the littered tent.

Between two pine trees a few yards away, a rustic bench had been built. Sherlock sat down, drew a thin book from his pocket, and began to read. He had barely cast his eye down one page when a shadow fell on his arm, and he looked up to see Wild Willie Sanders surveying him curiously.

“What’s bitin’ you?” asked Wild Willie. “You look mad as a wet hen.”

Sherlock scowled. “Something terrible’s going to happen around this camp!” he said with a profound air of secrecy.

The other boy laughed scornfully. “Huh! That’s what you’re always saying! Always acting mysterious, as if you thought somebody was going to commit a murder any minute! Reading that book again, too, I see! What’s the name of it?”

With a swift movement, he jerked the thin volume from Sherlock’s hand, and read the title. “‘How to Be a Detective in 10 Lessons, by the Fireside Correspondence School.’ Say, what makes you think you’re a natural-born sleuth, anyway?”

Sherlock peered up pleadingly, blinking his pale blue eyes behind the large, window-like lenses of a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that rested on his long, inquisitive nose. “Here, give me that, Wild Willie! Give me back that book!”

“All right, Mr. Detective.” The boy tossed the book down, and grunted. “Say, you better quit shadowing Chink Towner all over the place. He’s getting mad about it, and told me he’d swat you one if you didn’t stop following him.”

Again Sherlock gave him a solemn glance. “Shh! I got information that he’s a smuggler!”

“A smuggler? What do you mean?”

“Well, anyway, he’s probably a Chinese spy in disguise.”

Wild Willie laughed derisively. “Say, I’ve known Chink Towner all my life, and he’s no more a smuggler than the Chief is! Why he’s not even a Chinaman—we just call him Chink because he kind of looks that way. You better get these nutty ideas out of your head before you get hurt. It’s just like that time you told me that Leggy and all the other colored fellows in the kitchen were counterfeiters.”

Sherlock winced. This affair was another of his failures to discover a secret threat of Crime hanging over the heads of his fellow campers. One evening soon after the camp season had started, he had been listening outside the shack where these dusky young men lived, back of the ice-house, and had heard the whirr of machinery and the proud voice of Leggy, assistant cook, remarking: “Yas suh, dis here ma-sheen is sure goin’ to make lots o’ money for us all!” His hope of fame as a great detective was blasted next day in mess-hall, however, when that same Leggy announced that he had “brought a sewing-machine to camp with him and was prepared, for a nominal sum of money, to mend rips and tears in the campers’ clothing.”

“Never mind about that,” he said desperately. “People around this camp are going to be pretty glad they’ve got a live-wire detective on the job. Pretty soon you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

“Why? What’s going to happen?”

“Some people around here will bear watching, that’s all!” Sherlock cast a meaning glance in the direction of Tent Ten, where the twins had set about clearing up the devastated tent and making up the bunks into a semblance of orderliness.

Wild Willie stared in unbelief, and again broke into a laugh. “You mean the Utway brothers? Say, if you take my advice, you’ll keep away from those two! Everybody knows they scrap with each other now and then, but if you try to tackle one of them, you’ll have both of them coming down on your neck! What have you got against them?”

“Well,” said Sherlock slowly, “Jake threw around my good camera-case, and Jerry dumped a whole bucket of water on me——”

“That’s no crime, is it? What’s mysterious about that?”

“You’ll see. Look at what they did to Mr. Colby—Jake knocked down a lantern on him, on purpose, and I bet they’d like to do worse, if they could. And he’s a councilor!”

“You’re a born chump,” remarked his tent-mate hopelessly. “No use trying to argue with you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes Junior. Some day, something terrible is going to happen around camp, and then you’ll be a hero and discover the mystery. Oh, yes!” Again came that scornful laugh. “Listen, there goes the bugle sounding Recall. Sax McNulty promised to tell some stories before swim, up at the big cherry tree. Are you coming, or are you going to read your old book all day?”

“You go ahead. I’m all right.” Sherlock again picked up his precious book, but he did not read far. As soon as Wild Willie was out of sight, he slipped the book into his pocket. He was convinced that the Utway twins were a pair of villains. If he could catch them in some dark act, and unmask them as dire disturbers of the peace of Camp Lenape——

Already a plan had formed in his mind. He would hide near them, watch their movements, and if possible discover them in some suspicious act.

The campus between the rows of tents was deserted now. Again silence hovered over Camp Lenape, scene of many a summer adventure, some of which have been written down elsewhere. The spreading lodge-building, perched on the hillside midway between the mountain range and the waters of Lake Lenape, was deserted. In the shadow by the kitchen door, Sherlock could see Ellick, the jovial, chocolate-colored chef, sprawled on the ground beside his three coffee-colored assistants, resting after their labors of preparing the midday meal of camp fare. The waiting lad could picture in his mind the scene under the wild-cherry tree in the baseball field beyond the lodge, where a dozen grown men, the councilors, sat, surrounded by the hundred lively boy campers who each season came to live under canvas in the woods and to enjoy the delights of this outdoor paradise. “Sax” McNulty, the comical leader who was in charge of camp stunts, would be relating some stirring tale. All the other councilors would be there—Wally Rawn, the swimmer; Lieutenant Eames of West Point fame; Mr. Colby; Happy Face Frayne, the associate director; and the rest. And somewhere among the group of listening boys would be the Chief himself, the kindly director who knew all things.

Among the crowd, Sherlock’s absence would not be noticed. He rose swiftly, and managed to creep unseen into a clump of low bushes about fifty yards below Tent Ten. From this vantage-point he was able to overlook the activity of the two brothers, who labored moodily at their task in the hot sun.

It was no easy thing to discover all the missing objects which the energetic raiders from other tents had thrown into the surrounding shrubbery, and to arrange everything inside in apple-pie order for a later inspection; and the better part of an hour passed before Jake and Jerry sat on a newly-made bunk and rested from their labors.

Sherlock, who had patiently squatted within the depths of a distant huckleberry patch all the while, now saw his chance to creep undiscovered to the space under the flooring of the tent, where he could listen and perhaps overhear some incriminating words. Expertly he wormed his way to this hiding-place, behind the unsuspecting backs of the brothers, in time to catch the end of Jake’s last remark.

“—you’re right, Jerry. We sure ought to do something. Everybody was in on the scrap, and Colby didn’t have any right to put all this work on us.”

“He’s too strict, with all his talk about discipline,” responded Jerry somberly. “From now on he’s going to be after us, especially when you pushed the tent-pole and brought that lantern down on his dome; so we might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”

“That’s the stuff! What’ll we do to him?”

Sherlock, below them, stifled a gasp of horror. Here was mutiny, rank rebellion against the authority of a councilor of Lenape, a grown man and a scoutmaster! His jaw gaped as he listened.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Jerry slowly. “I bet old Colby could be scared out of his skin, even if he was a soldier once. You know that big bull-frog Spaghetti Megaro caught the other day? I know where he keeps it down in my tent. Let’s get it, and to-night, about twelve o’clock when everybody’s asleep, we’ll slide down to Colby’s tent and chuck old Mr. Frog into his bed! Talk about scared! Say, I’ll bet Old Discipline will let out a yelp you can hear a mile!”

“Boy, I can just hear it now!” agreed Jake, bursting into a laugh. “But how are we going to stay awake that long? Twelve o’clock’s pretty late.”

“I’ll fix that. I can wake up whenever I want to, you know. We can run a long string across from my tent over here. Tie one end to your foot before you go to sleep. When I wake up I’ll give it a pull and wake you up, then get the frog, and meet you here. Then we’ll go down to Fifteen and give Mr. Discipline the scare of his life!”

“All set. I got a ball of cord in my locker we can use. Come on, Jerry—we got time enough before swim to listen in on one of Sax McNulty’s stories. Let’s go!”

Day is done, gone the sun,

From the lake, from the hills, from the sky—

The full, rich notes of Taps rolled over the pines of Lenape and echoed across the lake. Fat Crampton doused the Tent Ten lantern and climbed heavily into his creaking bunk.

“Good night, campers!” drawled the voice of Jim Avery, the lanky councilor. Sleepy voices answered from the darkness. There was a slight rustling from the direction of Jake Utway’s bunk. Sherlock Jones cocked an ear. He knew that Jake, following the plan he had overheard that afternoon, was attaching to his foot the cord which the twins had laid down after nightfall to connect Tent Ten with Jerry’s bunk in Tent Eight down the line. This method of communication was necessary because the Chief in his wisdom made it a point to separate the two devoted brothers into different tent-groups when the changes in tent assignments were made at the end of each two-week period of camp. Therefore Jake was given a place with Mr. Avery, while Jerry was nominally under the guardianship of Dr. Cannon in Tent Eight.

Sherlock smiled with satisfaction in the darkness. He, too, had a score to pay off, and he would see that the brothers who had misused him would not get off lightly. His preparations were made. Cautiously he felt under his bunk to make sure that all the equipment he needed was at hand.

A few stars sparkled down through the softly-swaying pine branches. Nothing was heard in the tent now save the heavy breathing of the weary sleepers, led by Fat Crampton’s rumbling bass snore. Far up the mountain behind camp a dog barked somewhere. The travelling spot of a flashlight came up the path as the Chief passed by noiselessly on his nightly round. Sherlock caught himself nodding—tried to jerk himself into wakefulness—nodded again....

He woke with a start. A dim bulk of shadow moved against the dull starlight; Jake Utway was dressing hastily in the dark. He waited until Jake had slipped on his tennis shoes and had noiselessly tiptoed down the steps. A light footfall from the path told him that Jerry was joining the party. “Got the frog?” he heard Jake whisper; the forms of the two brothers melted into the dark in the direction of Tent Fifteen.

Sherlock waited no longer. He sprang from his blankets, and stripped off his pajamas. He had, unseen by his tent-mates, slipped into bed fully dressed beneath his nightwear. It was the work of a few instants to slide his feet into a pair of moccasins and drop over the edge of the tent floor. Clutched under one arm he carried his camera, his most prized possession. In the other hand he bore a metal pan with a short handle, and a package labeled “flashlight powder.”

CHAPTER III
THE MIDNIGHT MAN

Through the gloom the Utway twins felt their way down the hill, trusting to the touch of their feet to keep them on the path that ran through the pines on the northern edge of the campus. Jerry carried under his sweater the bulging form of the big frog, whose long legs jerked fitfully.

Jake grabbed his brother’s arm. “Hark!” he whispered. “I thought I heard something over to the right—there in the bushes!” They listened.

“You must be dreaming still! I don’t hear anything. Come on! You aren’t scared, are you?”

“Aw, say! Let’s hurry up, though. We don’t want to get caught. You still got Alexander good and tight?”

Jerry resisted a particularly violent kick from Alexander, the frog, and again moved forward. They were now close to the dull patch of canvas that marked Tent Fifteen, the tent furthest away from the lodge. The twins had marked beforehand the lower bunk occupied by Mr. Colby, which was on the far side. With the greatest caution, the twins circled through the underbrush and crept beneath the moorings of the tent-ropes. The councilor’s bunk was now at hand. It was their aim to slip Alexander beneath the blankets, and retreat into the cover of the pines, there to await the startled yell that would tell them Mr. Colby had discovered his slippery bedfellow.

Jake put his mouth close to Jerry’s ear. “Say, I know I heard something—there, right back of the tent! Somebody must be following us!”

“Well, what of it? They can’t see us in the dark. All the more reason to hurry. Ready?” He fished Alexander forth. “Quick, now—lift up the covers and I’ll chuck him in——” He got no further.

Boom! A thunderous explosion came from a few feet away, and a brilliant flare lit the scene like a flash of lightning.

With daylight clearness, the startled raiders could see every feature of their surroundings, standing out from the night. It was like a stage play. The inside of Tent Fifteen was lit with a blinding radiance. In a cleared space at the open rear of the tent, Sherlock Jones stood, a flaming flashlight-pan held high over his head with one hand, his other hand clicking the shutter of the camera, placed on a tripod and aimed straight at the bunk over which bent the white faces of the Utway twins. In the darkness, Sherlock had poured more powder into the pan than would have been necessary to light the scene of action, and the resulting explosion had been greater than he was prepared for.

Jerry jumped backward, for in the momentary light from the pan he had seen Mr. Colby’s eyes open and shut again, blinded by the dazzling glare. The boy’s backward movement caused him to bump his head heavily against the mooring-pole, and he saw more stars than those that shone in the July heavens. Alexander dropped from his nerveless hand.

Jake Utway, however, was the most startled of all those whose figures stood out in that brief second of brightness. He could not hold in the cry that came to his lips. Not six inches away from his was a face—the face of a man, wild, desperate, knotted with fear!

For some precious seconds he was too paralyzed to move. The flare had died down, but in his mind’s eye still stood forth, every feature cut clear in his memory, the face of the stranger. That twisted visage, he was sure, belonged to no one of the leaders of Lenape, nor any of the neighboring farmers that he knew. The head was completely bald, the eyes staring from their sockets, clenched teeth glittering between pale, drawn lips. He knew that never, as long as he lived, could he forget that frozen mask of terror.

It seemed ages before he could control his body enough to move. Stumbling blindly beneath the mooring-pole, he made for the shelter of the trees. Behind him came the shrill challenge of Mr. Colby: “Halt! Who goes there? What is it?”

Jake ran. He had gone about twenty yards when he tripped over a clump of brush, fell forward perilously, crashed into the trunk of a tree. He lay stunned where he fell. Dancing sparks flickered before his eyes; a slow pain grew in the left side of his face, which had smashed against the rough bark of a pine.

From a few yards away came the crash of a struggling body, tearing its way through the bushes. “Is that you, Jerry?” he called hoarsely, finding his voice and struggling to a sitting position. There was no answer, but the thrashing sound continued. What was it?

The unknown thing was almost upon him now. His whole face stinging with the recent blow, he tried to flounder to his feet. His upraised arm came into contact with flesh! Some heavy body fell upon his, a writhing mass of humanity. His groping hand clutched a bony arm clothed in some rough, thin material. At least his unknown attacker was human! Gritting his teeth, Jake Utway pulled himself together and grappled with his strange antagonist.

The battle was brief. The enemy seemed more bent upon escaping from Jake’s clutch than remaining to wrestle. It was a question which of the two was the more frightened. Jerry found and clung to a flailing leg until a sudden kick sent him sprawling again. The branches of the undergrowth crackled as the panic-stricken attacker fought his way free.

Painfully Jake scrambled to his feet. With his body scratched by the bushes and bruised in a dozen places, and his face throbbing from its blow against the tree, he now thought of nothing but regaining his tent undiscovered. Jerry must already have made his way back to his own tent. Jake hoped that Mr. Avery was not among those hurrying forms that passed near him in the dark, hastening toward the scene of commotion; but there was a chance that he had not been disturbed, as the lanky councilor was known throughout the camp as a sound sleeper who had to fight his way to wakefulness at Reveille. Jake’s knowledge of the lay of the land now stood him in good stead, and he quickly found the path and scurried toward Tent Ten, stripping off his shirt and sweater as he went. He breathed a sigh of relief as he came to the step of his own tent. Nothing seemed out of the way. His peering eyes made sure that Mr. Avery had not stirred. With shaking fingers Jake undressed fully, scrambled into his pajamas, and got into the rumpled blankets a fraction of a second before he heard steps at the tent door.

The Chief’s low voice floated through the night. “Taking pictures, were you? Well, Jones, if I didn’t know that you were a bit cuckoo, I might wonder what you were up to. As it is——”

“But, Ch-Chief!” Sherlock whimpered. “If you knew what I was taking a picture of, you’d——”

“Shh! Don’t wake up the whole camp!” came the command. “If you have any explanation to make, you can save it until morning. Now, not another word. You’ve made enough racket for one night!”

Jake could not help grinning beneath the covers. Evidently Sherlock, impeded with his camera and other apparatus, had not made his getaway in time. What could the amateur detective have been doing there at that hour? It must have been he whom they heard following them on their expedition. Well, time enough to worry in the morning! He listened sleepily as Sherlock stowed away his outfit, not dreaming that the camera contained an exposed film which might be a highly incriminating record of their midnight misdoings.

Sherlock, however, made sure that his precious camera was carefully placed in his locker. He was not minded to lose his sole evidence that he had risked all to obtain proof of the raid. He cast a grim glance toward Jake’s outstretched form as he donned his pajamas for the second time that night. Little did the brothers reck that Sherlock Jones, the detective, had not failed!

Sherlock wakened in the morning a few minutes before Reveille, and glanced across the tent to see if the adventure of the night had left any marks upon his mutinous tent-mate. It had. The most blundering detective could not have failed to note the clue which a tree-trunk had left on the face of Jake Utway. His left eye was ringed about with an inflamed patch of black-and-blue bruises—the most gorgeous “shiner” Sherlock had seen in some time. As he looked, Jake opened the uninjured eye and glanced achingly about him. His gaze fell on the grinning Jones, sitting upright in his bunk.

“How are all the frogs this morning?” Sherlock greeted him. “Say, you ought to ask Ellick for a chunk of beefsteak to drape over that eye of yours. In a couple days you’re going to have a bee-yootiful sunset on your face. It’s already started to turn all colors of the rainbow.”

Jake felt his eye tenderly. “There was some commotion in the night, and I got up and must have walked into something,” he said, with due regard for the truth. “You better shut up,” he added belligerently, “if you don’t want to carry around one just like it.”

Sherlock said nothing, but smiled to himself. He had already decided to refer to his latest case under the resounding title of “The Clue of the Black-and-Blue Eyebrow.”

CHAPTER IV
THE ARM

Sherlock’s opportunity to learn the results of his night’s work did not come until the middle of the morning. The Lenape program gave no freedom for detective labors until the period after squad-work had been completed. Tent Ten had been assigned to policing the lodge, and as Sherlock bent over his broom he cast many a dark glance at the busy Utway brothers, fretting until the moment came when he would be able to take his exposed film to the dark-room and discover the results of his snapshotting expedition. At last Assembly sounded, and he headed for his tent, carefully removed the film, and made his way to the small dark-room that had been built under the lodge for the convenience of camper photographers.

As he shut the door, turned on the red electric bulb, and began laying out hypo and the rest of the developing kit, he heard voices from the kitchen directly overhead. Ellick was superintending the preparations for lunch, and from his tone it was evident that his temper was not as genial and kindly as usual. Ellick, it would seem, had a grievance.

“Ah don’t no-how likes to think of a thief about de camp, Leggy,” he complained. “Ah gives de boys and de councilors all dey can eat. Whaffor dey want to come stealin’ around in de night to get bread and such?”

Sherlock pricked up his ears. Here was another case for a bright detective! Stealing from the kitchen! He awaited Leggy’s reply.

“Don’t know, Chef!” the assistant answered. “You-all figure, maybe dey gets hongry in de night, and a chunk o’ bread look mighty nice.”

“Don’t talk foolishment! Whaffor dey have to bust de lock on de pantry window jest ’cause dey gets a cravin’ for a snack? And what about de ax? Suppose dey wakes in de middle o’ de night and gets a cravin’ to chop down a few trees? Mah best hand-ax, stole right off de woodpile! No suh, I don’t like to think any Lenape fellow goes about bustin’ into windows and swipin’ dangerous wood-axes when folks is sleepin’.”

“How much grub did dey-all take, Chef?” came a question in the voice of Howard Chisel, the squat, bow-legged, ebony-faced lad who presided over dishwashing operations. “Jest bread?”

“No. More’n dat. Got off wid a couple cans o’ truck, and maybe some potatuhs. Ah declare, if Ah don’t tell de Chief about dis fust thing. Hookin’ a doughnut now and den is jest boy-tricks. Bustin’ windows and stealin’ good sharp axes is somethin’ else again!”

The listening boy made a note to ask Ellick for further details of this latest crime. At present, he was too busy to lend his services in another case. His hand shook slightly as he dipped the film in the developing baths, watched with eyes glittering behind their large lenses as the smoky negative cleared into masses of dark and light in the bottom of the tray. Most of the surface was taken up with a black patch that was in all likelihood the canvas of Tent Fifteen, but he would have to make a clear print of the scene before the details would show beyond question. He hung the fixed negative to dry and went out into the sunshine to wait impatiently until a proof could be taken.

Sherlock kicked his feet against a rock and thought over all the information he had gathered about the Utway affair. He hoped that the print he was making would show without question the full villainy of the twins. If it did not, it would leave him in a predicament. Mr. Colby had not seen either of the Utway twins, who had made their ways back to their bunks without capture. Yes; the picture must be a good one. Sherlock rose and went back into the dark-room.

With all the skill and care of which he was master, Sherlock Jones toiled over the developing of the first print of the raiding scene. Eagerly he bent over the developing bath as dark edges began to take shape on the bit of white paper. Slowly, slowly, the details melted into being, seeming to spring from the waters above the print. Now! The boy switched the print into the fixing tray, turned on the white light, and scrutinized his handiwork.

One glance, and he was ready to cry out with disappointment. He bit his lip. The explosion of the too-generous quantity of flashlight powder had startled him, and in his haste, unsure of his hearings in the darkness, he had twisted the camera on its tripod so that none of the action was visible. Diagonally across the picture ran the rear flap of the tent. The head and pillow of Mr. Colby showed with clearness, but the forms of the Utway twins and Alexander the frog were cut off by the expanse of the tent-fly. All that the picture revealed was a peaceful night-scene in one corner of Tent Fifteen—nothing more.

Had Sherlock not reminded himself that a good detective never gives way to emotion or shows in his features the state of his feelings, he might have stamped up and down the dark-room, raving at his failure. As it was, he controlled his disappointment as best he could, and patiently went over the picture a second time, to make sure that no detail had escaped his notice.

He was rewarded. In the upper corner of the print was something which at first glance he had not seen. It appeared to be an arm, the hand gripping one of the tent-ropes, the upper part near the body cut off by the edge of the negative. With growing excitement, Sherlock drew from his pocket the small magnifying lens he carried with him at all times. Taking the wet print into the outdoor sunshine, he focussed his glass on the mysterious detail. It was an arm—and the lens showed plainly a mark by which a detective could distinguish this arm from all other arms in the vicinity. Upon the fleshy part of the under forearm was tattooed the sketchy design of an American eagle with outstretched wings.

Here was a clue, indeed! Sherlock quivered with renewed hope. The arm could not belong to Mr. Colby. Although he could not say for sure, he had never noticed that either of the Utway twins bore such a tattoo mark, and it was unlikely that they could have kept secret such a distinctive brand. Therefore they must have had with them an unknown accomplice whom Sherlock, in the confusion of the moment, had not caught sight of at the time of the raid.

Who could it be? He thought over all the names of the campers of Tent Fifteen. He could remember no one who wore on his arm the patriotic stamp of an eagle. Well, there was one way of finding out. He could examine every arm in camp. And this could be done quite easily when the entire strength of the Lenape campers gathered on the dock for swim.

The bugle-notes of Swim Call sounded over his head as he hastily cleared away his developing paraphernalia and hung the precious print to dry, hidden in a far corner. He put away the negative in his breast pocket and raced down to his tent to change into swimming togs. Within a few minutes he was on his way to the boat-dock at the edge of the lake. He had already decided to refer to the Utway case in the future as “The Clue of the Tattooed Arm.”

The life-saving crew was already on duty, although only two or three younger campers had made their appearance on the plank floor of the dock. As Sherlock watchfully stepped out toward the far end, Wally Rawn, the husky leader who directed swimming and was captain of the life-saving organization made up of expert leaders and older boys, was shouting to a black-haired boy wearing the crew emblem. This boy, Steve Link by name, was rowing a round-bottomed steel rowboat some hundred yards out beyond the diving-tower. Attached to the stern painter of his craft was one of the camp canoes, which he was towing across the water with heaving oar-strokes.

“Where did you spot her, Steve?” Wally was shouting.

Steve rested on the handles of his oars. “Way down almost to the dam!” he answered. “She must have got loose last night and drifted with the current. Had the dickens of a time finding her, too!”

“Carelessness!” Wally Rawn muttered, shaking his head. “Somebody played the dub and didn’t even tie up after using it. I’d think even a tenderfoot would know that a canoe should be brought up and turned over on the dock after a trip. A good way to lose a fine canoe!”

He raised his arm to blow the whistle that would begin the swimming period, and Sherlock made sure that Wally Rawn, at least, had no tattooed eagle on his left arm. The dock was now crowded with campers, and the shrill call had no sooner sounded than the air was full of diving bodies and splashing spray as the boys of Lenape took to water. The life-saving boats were now at their posts, guarding the safety of the swimmers.

Sherlock remained on the dock, where he had a full view of everyone. His head jerked back and forth as he tried to follow every move of the group of swimming boys, now grown to almost the full number of the camp. He caught sight of Jerry and Jake Utway, whose flying bodies curved through the air from the highest diving-platform and almost at the same instant cleft the rippling surface of Lake Lenape. He watched them moodily as they swung hand over hand toward the farthest lifeboat. At any rate, neither of them bore a tattooed eagle on his arm! He must find the mysterious accomplice. With renewed energy he swept the sportive, glistening bodies of the gay swimmers with an intent gaze.

When the final “All out!” whistle blew, the dejected Sherlock made his way up the hill. He was baffled. His vigil had not revealed an incriminating tattoo-mark on the arm of any of the campers or leaders present. He must be patient and watchful, trusting to luck and his skill at shadowing the suspected twins to bring forth some fresh clue.

As he entered Tent Ten, the only one of his comrades before him was little shock-headed Pete Lister, youngest and smallest lad in the tent-group. The kid looked up as Jones came up the step.

“Hey, Sherlock, look what I’m doing!” He squirmed over in his seat on the unmade bunk, and waved an indelible pencil in the air. “See? Making pictures, I am! Bet you never thought of this, Sherlock!” He stuck out one sunburnt leg. The calf and thigh were a mass of scrawled, deep-purple designs—crooked anchors, shaky outlines of American flags, hearts, daggers, skulls, and Pete’s own name in wavering characters. “You don’t need to worry—they come off easy. See? First you draw ’em, then you wet the picture a little, and I’ll bet you couldn’t tell ’em from a real tattoo-mark! Want to try it?”

“No. No, thanks,” said Sherlock Jones bitterly.

CHAPTER V
IN THE NAME OF THE LAW

“This is the place,” said Jake Utway. He indicated the trampled patch of bushes. “That’s the very tree that walloped me in the eye.”

“Funny I didn’t see him when the flash went off,” mused Jerry. “But I was busy, first with banging my head on the pole, and next in getting back home quick. What do you think he was after?”

Jake shrugged. “Search me! But after I tangled with him and he got away, he made for the path that runs down through Church Glade to the lake. No use trying to find any footprints now—too many of the campers have been along since last night.”

“Funny, all right.” Jerry strode back and forth through the low brush, kicking away the branches and examining the soft ground closely. “Nothing here, I guess. Let’s go, or we’ll have that snooping Jones following us around again. Hold on—what’s this?”

A bright bit of paper wrapper had caught his eye. He lifted the object from beneath the tangle of leaves that had concealed it from all but the sharpest scrutiny. “Huh,” said Jerry. “What’s a can of condensed milk doing here?”

Jake looked at the small can and its bright label. “Funny! That’s the same brand Ellick uses in the kitchen!”

“Do you think your bald-headed friend dropped it?”

“Boy,” replied Jake with feeling, “if he was half as scared as I was, I wouldn’t blame him for dropping a few arms and legs! Come on—stick that can in your pocket and let’s stroll on. Just like you said, that Sherlock kid is tagging after us again. I just saw him dodge behind a tree. He’s been acting awful crazy ever since yesterday afternoon.”

“I’ve’ got a better idea,” put in Jerry. “I’m sick of being shadowed around every minute of the day by a goofy cluck with four eyes and no brain! Detective, is he! Huh! We’ll give him something to detect.” He set out through the woods at a rapid gait.

“What’s up?” Jake had to take long strides to keep up with his brother.

“He wants to shadow us. All right—but he’ll have to go some to keep us in sight this afternoon! We’ll lead him a merry chase through the woods, and by the time he gets back to camp he’ll be so sick of shadowing he won’t bother us for a month!”

“Swell! I tell you, we’ll take him up the side of the mountain and lose him. Bet he don’t know the short-cut down; and it’ll take him until after swim-time to find his way back!”

The Utway twins were masters of woodcraft, and on various hikes had explored the mountainous country west of Lenape so that they knew every trail and landmark. It would be no difficult task for them to mislead the blundering Sherlock. Jerry led the way cross-country with an easy stride, taking care always to keep in the sight of the amateur detective so that he would not lose hope thus soon, give up the chase as a bad job, and return to camp. With Jake at his elbow, he cut through the low pines and mountain maples beyond the Council Ring, crossed the wagon road just below the bend, and skirting the marshy meadows below the Hermit’s house, gained the base of the steep slide of boulders that scarred the mountainside.

“He’s still coming,” Jake assured his brother. “I saw him a minute ago, down in that birch swamp. He was having a heap of trouble getting through. Wait till he hits this patch!”

It was dangerous going now. The rock-slide was an ancient glacial moraine, that cut fan-wise down the face of the mountain. The two boys crawled, leaped, and climbed from one huge, lichen-encrusted boulder to the next, keeping a watchful eye for lurking snakes. They made a labored progress diagonally across the slide, now and then covertly glancing over their shoulders to keep watch on their victim. Sherlock, panting heavily, had stopped to rest in the shade and wipe away the moisture that had dripped from his brow to cloud the lenses of his spectacles.

“He won’t come on here until we get across,” Jake muttered. “We could spot him too easily, he thinks—as if we didn’t know every step he’s taken since we started! Hurry up and get into the woods again; then we can swing around to the short-cut and be back in camp before he gets wise!”

In ten minutes they had left the hapless Sherlock far behind. They were now circling around the top of the rock-slide; far below toiled the weary form of the detective, slipping and sliding across the rocks. Not long after, their unerring trailing instinct led them through the scrub-oak of the summit and brought them out on a little-used pathway that ran straight as an arrow from the mountain-top down to the Lenape lodge. It was, in fact, the line down which the water-supply for the camp was piped, from a collecting reservoir below the spring near the crest of the first mountain. A track had been cut through the woods when the pipe was first laid, and although the way was still open, it was seldom used, most of the campers preferring to take the road, which made a more easy ascent. The Utway twins had discovered the overgrown path by accident, and now made good use of their knowledge.

They picked their way slowly through the forest, following the line of leaden pipe which ran down the hillside, now stretching for yards along the surface, now buried a few inches beneath the brown, needle-carpeted soil. Knowing that hiking down a steep incline is more dangerous than climbing, the twins, having no desire to lose any precious camping days by being laid up with a sprained ankle, stepped cautiously with a slow, woodsman’s pace. Once or twice they had to make their way around a fallen tree trunk, and for some distance they lost sight of the pipe-line altogether as they gingerly circled about a marshy bit of ground where the hillside began sloping off above the wagon road. Deer-flies buzzed in a cloud about their heads, and the stinging little pests were so bothersome that both boys hung their handkerchiefs down from their hats to flutter in the air and keep off the humming insects.

Jerry first came in sight of the road, and broke into a run. The road was cut in this place right across the hill, so that it was necessary, in order to gain it, to drop down a low cliff-edge about the height of a man. With a glorious leap Jerry surmounted the fringing brush and flew downward through the air. He landed in a heap, missing by a hair’s breadth the body of a man who squatted, hidden, in the shadow of the overhanging edge.

Jerry cried out to warn his brother. The man whose body he had barely missed in his blind leap was on his feet in an instant. Jerry Utway looked up, straight into the muzzle of a double-barrelled shotgun aimed directly at his head.

“Don’t move!” warned the stranger in grim tones. “You, there, up above—hands up! Come out of those bushes! I’ve got you both covered!”

Jake’s upraised hands appeared above, followed by his face, open-mouthed with surprise. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Never mind. Come down here where I can see you!” There was no mistaking the urgency of that hard voice. “Now, you there, stay right where you are on the ground. Not a move!” The man was dressed in some sort of a blue uniform. He wore a shapeless, broad-brimmed felt hat, and his trouser-legs were tucked into the tops of a pair of leather leggins. “Why, you must be twins!” he exclaimed in astonishment.

Jake slid down the slope in a cloud of dust and a shower of gravel. “That’s right. But what’s the idea of the hold-up?”

“Yes, what’s the idea?” added Jerry. “Look out that gun don’t go off. You better not try anything with us, or you’ll have everybody in Camp Lenape after you, Mister!” The boy’s bold words were somewhat belied by the shakiness of the voice in which they were delivered.

“Oh, from the camp, are you?” Slowly the man in blue lowered his weapon. “Anybody else with you?”

“No, sir. Hear that?” Through the woods drifted the familiar bugle-notes of Swim Call. “We got to get back for swim, or we’ll be missed.”

The stranger chuckled. “I see. Well, guess I won’t keep you.” He grounded the wicked-looking shotgun. “Just a word of advice to you, buddies, before you go. Be a little more careful how you drop on a fellow’s neck right out of the sky. ‘Look before you leap’ is a motto that still holds good.”

Jerry rose and straightened his dusty clothing. “Yes, sir.”

“And I further order you, in the name of the law, not to tell anybody at the camp that you saw me. They’ll learn soon enough. Now, hop it!”

The twins had no mind to argue with the law, backed by a gun. They hopped it. They were twenty yards away before the man in blue called out to them.

“By the way, you haven’t seen any strange men around here in the last day or so, have you?”

“You’re the only one.” It was Jerry who replied. Jake caught his breath, and reflectively felt the damaged flesh over his left eye.

“Right. So long!”

The twins did not speak until they had crossed the cleared ground above the tents. As they approached Tent Ten, Jerry broke the silence. “It’s too much for my feeble brain,” he said. “Wonder if he was after your bald-headed friend?”

“I give up. Come on—we’ll be late for swim. Wonder where Sherlock is now? Hope he don’t get shot. If he don’t turn up for supper, maybe we’d better go look for him.”

Within the empty tent they quickly slipped into swimming suits and made for the dock. The water was already alive with plunging bodies. At the landward end of the dock, where the lake bottom sloped gently in a sandy beach that was a favorite spot for the younger and more timid swimmers, who could here sport about without getting beyond their depth, the twins paused to watch a scene that never failed to arouse laughter.

Billy the Crow was taking his daily bath. Billy was an aged black ruffian who made Lenape his home, and was often to be seen hopping about the tents or perching in a near-by tree, giving vent to his feelings in no uncertain tones. At some time in his life Billy had been caught by the hired man on a neighboring farm, who had, by slitting his tongue, bestowed on the rascally bird the doubtful gift of speech. Billy knew only a few words, but he made the most of them. This ceremony of taking a bath at the edge of the lake was a stunt of which Billy was especially proud. He now teetered on a flat rock at the water’s edge, urging himself to overcome his timidity and bravely take the plunge.

“Go on in, Billy!” said Billy with a squawk. “Go on in, Billy!” With one pointed claw he gingerly tried the water. The laughing ring of boys about him imitated his words and splashed the rock with water. Mr. Carrigan, camp naturalist, sat on the planked floor of the dock, on life-saving duty, his warning whistle dangling by its thong in his hand.

“Mr. William Corvus Brachyrhyncos doesn’t seem to be fond of bathing,” he observed.

“Is that his full name?” Jerry Utway chuckled as Billy finally made up his mind, and with a last “Go on in—aww-crk!” doused his rumpled feathers into the rippling waters. “He’s taken enough baths to wash himself white, but he still has to go through all that rigmarole first.”

“Crows are funny birds,” said Mr. Carrigan. “He certainly is a pet around here. Ellick must feed him crumbs from the kitchen.” Billy finished his brief swim-period, and fluttered across to the dock to dry and preen himself in the sun. “Here he comes, shaking water all over the place. Hello, Billy! Oh, you would, would you?”

“Hello, Billy!” mocked the bird. His bright eye had caught sight of the dangling whistle, its metal bowl twinkling as the sun’s rays caught it. A few hops took him to the councilor’s side. A sharp beak caught at the thong, tried to drag the whistle from its owner’s hand.

“Natural-born thieves, crows,” said Mr. Carrigan. “They’ll steal anything that happens to catch their eye. Here, let go, Billy!”

Billy, insulted, uttered a final scolding squawk and flew noisily to a perch on a near-by tree.

CHAPTER VI
BRAVES IN COUNCIL

First Call for supper had already sounded before Sherlock Jones returned to camp. He limped into Tent Ten weary, scratched, and footsore, and in a dejected mood. It was a thankless task for a detective to try to shadow a pair of expert woodsmen through the mountains. He had barely time to wash his face and comb his rumpled hair before the camp was called to stand Retreat at the regular sundown ceremony of lowering the flag. His thoughts, as the buglers played To the Colors, were not friendly toward the two spruce, innocent-looking brothers who stood stiffly to attention at his side. It was beginning to look as though Sherlock Jones, the great detective, was baffled.

After the evening meal, Lieutenant Eames, officer of the day, announced that Indian Council would convene that night at the usual summons. Twilight found the braves assembling for the pow-wow. Figures of boys and leaders, draped each in his blanket, trooped solemnly toward the Council Ring on the north side of the campus. A hush fell upon the circle of listening tent-tribes as they awaited the call that was always, by long tradition, the signal for the ceremony to begin.

Through the hush of the dusk came the soft, whistling call of the first whippoorwill. Answer came from a near-by thicket. Amid the liquid chorus the Chief rose from his seat, pulled his blanket about him, and spoke.

“Braves and sagamores of the Lenape tribe, you have been gathered in council by the call of the whippoorwill. Brave Sunfish will now light the friendship fire in Indian fashion, with rubbing sticks.”

Sunfish Linder stepped forth from his tent-group, and took his place on the windward side of the fire, laid four-square in the center of the ring to supply light rather than heat. He put one foot on the cedar hearth-stick of his outfit, twisted the thong of the bow about the spindle and placed the drilling-point into the point of the notched hearth-stick. Holding the drill steady at the top with a soaped drill-stone in his cupped hand, he began sawing the bow back and forth, at first slowly, then with increasing speed. Friction of wood upon wood caused a trickle of hot, powdery splinters to drop into the tinder-pan. A few seconds of rapid action, and the pan held a glowing coal of powder, which was dumped upon the prepared tinder. Sunfish swayed the bunch of tinder back and forth in his cupped hands, breathed upon it slightly. The glowing mass burst into a golden flame. The firemaker thrust the blaze between the logs. As it caught, climbing yellow tongues licked upward through the pile, and the friendship fire was alight. The silent campers broke the spell with a chorus of approval in Indian-talk. “How, how!”

“Good medicine! May the spirit of the Great Manitou watch over and guide our councils as we gather in peace this night,” said the Chief, and sat again upon his stone dais.

The Utway twins never failed to enjoy the council in the woods. Something there is in the heart of every boy and man which only finds itself when a close-knit band of their brethren gather together in friendship beneath the star-sprinkled lodge of the great outdoors. The two boys sat with one blanket thrown over their sturdy shoulders, looking about the circle of faces thrown into bold relief by the ruddy glare of the fire. The tent flares were now lit, each small fire glowing in its brazier at the end of a pole marked with the tent totem. The great totem pole of Lenape towered above the huddled groups on the south side of the fireplace, its carved and painted emblems glaring forth awesomely from time to time as a shower of sparks flew upward. Opposite, on the north side, was the stone seat of the Chief, with its tall back of silvery birch trunks, shaped in the form of a gigantic “L” standing out from the blood-red blanket that curtained the majestic dais. The fine-cut head of the Chief rose above his blankets, calm, powerful, serene. At his side sat Sagamore “Happy Face” Frayne, Lenape scribe and keeper of the birch-bark scroll.

“We are now ready to hear the report of scouts of the Lenape tribe,” announced the Chief.

This was the time for any member of the group, if he wished, to rise, bespeak the attention of the Chief and the assembled braves, and relate the discovery of anything which might be of interest to the tribe. Mr. Carrigan, now recognized under the title of “Sagamore Wise-Tongue” because of his wide knowledge of nature-lore, rose and after addressing the Chief, reported that he had seen a covey of spotted snipe, and that the braves newly come to camp would soon have the rare chance to hunt these nimble birds with bag and lantern. Brave Rolfe rose to ask the name of the constellation of stars now riding overhead, and Brave Slater of Tent Four was called upon by the Chief to give a short talk on the signs now visible in the summer sky. Small Brave Barstow reported that the kingfisher’s nest he had found by the lakeside now contained four little fledglings. The report of each scout was greeted with the approving murmur of “How!”

Again the Chief rose, to open the period of reports for the welfare of the tribe. This was the time for campers to tell of any observation which they had made which might lead to the improvement of the camp in any way—to point out steps that might be taken to keep the routine orderly and effective, or offer to help build or repair camp equipment. Instantly Steve Link was on his feet.

“O Chief!”

“Speak, Brave Link.”

“This morning before swim I found that the Red Fox canoe was missing from the dock. I took out a boat and finally found the lost canoe far down at the end of the lake, drifting with its paddles on the bottom. I questioned the braves of Tent Eleven, who had used it when they went out after supper last night, and they said that they had left it bottom-up on the dock when they returned. Someone else must have been responsible for this carelessness. Now, every brave knows that such a canoe as the Red Fox is valuable and must be treated with care. I would like to ask that every brave who has passed his canoe-test consider himself duty bound to make sure that our boats and canoes are treated as they should be treated.”

“How, how!”

“A fine suggestion, Brave Link. Sagamore Happy Face will enter it on the birch-bark scroll. Now”—the Chief’s face was serious in the firelight—“now, I must say something which I have never, in my years as Chief of Lenape, had to say before. There is a stain on the name of the tribe. I dislike to say this, but—there is a thief among us.”

“A thief!” A babble of voices came from the ring of braves.

“Yes,” went on the Chief grimly; “someone among us here to-night—unless I am gravely mistaken, which I hope I am—someone here has no right to share the free and honest councils of our tribe.” With an outstretched hand he silenced the rising flood of questions. “I will tell you what has happened, and you may judge for yourselves. Several days ago Brave Tompkins took off his gold ring to wash his hands, down by his tent. When he looked for it a few minutes after, it had disappeared, although he saw nobody near him at the time. When he told me about it, I thought he might have lost it himself, and advised him to wait and see if it turned up. But to-day, when Sagamore War-Canoe Munson told me that his silver wrist-watch had vanished under somewhat the same circumstances, I began to think that there must be a false brave among us, with light fingers and a spotted heart. Then, this morning our faithful Ellick came to me with the story of a robbery in the kitchen during the night.”

“Ugh, ugh!” growled disapproving voices from the darkness.

“Yes, bad medicine,” went on the speaker. “Ellick reports that the lock of the pantry window was broken and a supply of food taken away. Moreover, he says that a large hand-ax is missing from its place on the woodpile.”

The Utway twins listened breathlessly as the Chief went on. Sherlock Jones stirred eagerly within the folds of his blanket.

“One word more, and I will not bring up this unpleasant subject again to-night. Some one of you must know or guess who is guilty of these strange disappearances. If anyone here comes to me and returns these lost articles, and makes a clean breast of his misconduct, none of the braves shall know of his trespass against the Lenape code. Are there further reports for the welfare of the tribe? If not, we will pass to the less serious part of our council.”

The ranked listeners relaxed, and there was a laughing, expectant hum of voices as “Guffy” Evans rose to challenge all comers to a talk-fest. The challenge was immediately accepted, in the name of Tent Ten, by Sagamore Avery, who therewith entered little Lefkowitz as their champion in this jabbering contest. Sagamore Happy Face announced the subject: “Give a two-minute speech on Why Polar Bears Don’t Wear Red Flannel Underwear,” and gave the contestants thirty seconds to prepare their arguments. At the command, the two opponents faced each other near the center of the ring, and began a high-pitched, nonsensical stream of chatter about nothing in particular. Lefkowitz was finally shouted into speechlessness, and the victorious Guffy took his seat amid cheers and cat-calls, while Soapy Mullins rose and called upon Lefty Reardon, the baseball captain, to stand against him in a hand-wrestling tilt.

After a series of boisterous games of “Buzz,” the fun was concluded by a short ghost story from Sax McNulty, which sent shivers of horror chasing up and down the spines of the younger campers. At last the Chief rose and held out his arms in Benediction above the dying fire.

“May the spirit of the all-seeing Manitou go with every brave as he leaves his place at our council this night!”

Flashlights pointed out the path as the drowsy braves filed toward their tent homes. The Utway twins, although pleasantly tired from their active day in the open, were nevertheless wakeful and alert. Behind them came the low chatter of a pair of youngsters from Tent Seven.

Jerry caught a phrase dropped by one of them, a small lad named Toots. “Gee, I clean forgot to make my report of scouts. You remember, Al, that when we saw that smoke from the woods across the lake, I said I’d report it at council?”

“What’s that?” Jerry questioned him. “You saw smoke across the lake?”

“Yes,” said the boy eagerly, “me and Al here, we were out in a rowboat over that way, and saw some smoke coming up like somebody had a campfire in the woods.”

“Hmm. Take my advice and don’t say anything about it. Not worth mentioning.” But Jerry looked at Jake, who nodded back. The expanse of heavily-wooded land across the lake was almost always deserted, so much so that deer tracks were often to be discovered within its depths. A campfire there was certainly a most unusual thing.

CHAPTER VII
NEWS AND MORE NEWS

“Come on, Jerry!” said Jake Utway.

“We’ll go up and pitch down the chunks, and the other guys can stow them away in the refrigerator.”

“You’re on!” answered his brother, and began climbing the ladder.

Tent Ten had been assigned, as their squad-work the next morning after the council, to filling the large refrigerator in the pantry behind Ellick’s large, airy kitchen. This duty required that they ascend to the towerlike structure that housed the summer’s supply of ice for Camp Lenape. In mid-winter, when the lake was sheeted over with a crystal mass some six inches thick, a gang of men always came with saws and teams of horses to harvest the ice and store it, between layers of sawdust, in the Lenape ice-house for the use of the campers the following season.

It was the plan of the brothers to enter the ice-house, dig out the embedded blocks required, and send these down the chute to their waiting tent-mates, whose job it would be to wash away the sawdust and transport the ice to Ellick’s gaping refrigerator. Armed with ice-tongs and a large miner’s pick, Jake and Jerry climbed to the upper door of the edifice, and entered its chill gloom.

“Come on, work fast, if you don’t want to freeze!” advised Jerry. He raised the pick and began clearing away the thick crust of sawdust in one corner of the place, but paused as his brother made no move to aid him. “Hey! Earn your keep, man! Don’t stand star-gazing all morning!”

Jake was staring upward. The ice-house was solidly built, but at one corner of the roof the sunlight slanted through a narrow crevice. The watcher had for an instant seen that spot of light cut off by the passage of a small body. Jake pointed. “Something up there, Jerry!”

Jerry’s eyes were more accustomed to the darkness. “Why, you cluck, that’s only Billy the crow! Hello, Billy!”

“Hello, Billy!” the cackling echo drifted down from the roof. “Billy the crow! Awr-rck!”

“He probably lives up there,” went on Jerry in a matter-of-fact tone. “Now, are we going to finish this job, or do I have to do it alone? Come out of your trance!”

Slowly Jake took his eyes from aloft, scraped away the sawdust with his foot, and clutched the half-revealed cake of ice with his tongs. “Fire away! But I got an idea, Jerry—and as soon as we chuck enough ice down, I’m going to try it out.”

The boys worked swiftly and silently after this, panting and shivering slightly as they uncovered one slab of ice after another and sent them crashing down the chute, after a shouted warning to their toiling comrades on the ground.

“There, guess that’ll hold Ellick for a while,” said Jerry at last, resting from his labors. “Now, what’s this bright idea of yours, Jake?”

“Billy’s still up there,” answered his brother. “I often wondered where his nest was. Crows, as Sagamore Carrigan said down at the dock yesterday afternoon, are funny birds. If you give me a boost on your shoulders, I think I can climb up the side of the wall the rest of the way.”

“Don’t know what good that’ll do you,” said Jerry promptly, “but here goes!” He cupped his hands, and Jake scrambled athletically to his shoulders, bracing his body against the rough timbered side of the building. Jerry grunted. “Uhh! Say, Jakie, you ought to be a sailor for this job! Sailors are experts when it comes to climbing to crow’s nests!”

Billy ruffled his feathers and cast a beady, suspicious eye down upon these proceedings. “Aww-rk!” he muttered. “Billy the crow! Go on in, Billy!” With a series of angry squawks he edged through the narrow opening in the roof and flew away to more interesting scenes.

Jake was by this time clinging to the wall, far above the sawdust surface where Jerry stood, head bent back, watching the climber’s progress. Cautiously, arms spread eagled to seize any projection no matter how small, Jake ascended precariously toward his goal. He was now within arm’s length of the corner where the talkative crow had made his entrance. Motes of dust danced in the beam of sunlight over his shoulder, and his groping hand stirred up a mass of dust and cobwebs which made him sneeze. In a far corner, on a ledge of rafters, his fingers touched a hard, metallic object.

“If you slip now,” called Jerry warningly, “you’ll get another black eye to match the first one.”

Jake grinned with satisfaction as the sunlight glittered on the thing he held in his hand.

“Crows are funny birds,” he remarked a second time. “Natural-born thieves. Here, catch!”

Jerry ducked, and deftly snatched the shining circle which came spinning down at him.

“Admiral Munson’s wrist-watch,” announced Jake. “And Terry Tompkins’ ring is here too, along with a lot of other junk.” He was stuffing the nondescript collection of articles into his pockets as he spoke. As cautiously as he had come, he began descending from his lofty perch.

“So this is what you found in the crow’s nest!” said Jerry, and whistled. “Jakie, you’re brighter than I thought you were. You put two and two together, and get—a heap of assorted jewelry!”

“Crows are very fond of bright objects, and will steal them and carry them off to hide away, if they get a chance,” explained Jake with condescension, leaping at last to the sawdust floor. “Yep, Billy was the thief. Look here!” He drew out his treasure-trove. In his hand, in addition to young Tompkins’ gold ring, lay a bit of crumpled tinfoil, the rusted top of a pickle-jar, a silver dime, a few bent nails, and the brass button from a scout uniform.

“Wonderful!” breathed Jerry in mock admiration. “Say, you didn’t see Ellick’s hand-ax up there, did you?”

“Don’t be a sap. Come along—we’ll show the Chief he was wrong about thinking there was a thief among the campers. Bet he’ll be tickled to find that the thief wears feathers!”

One after the other they slid down the ladder to the ground. Sherlock Jones and Wild Willie Sanders were wrestling with a large slab of sawdust-covered ice; they looked up curiously as the twins raced by them, on their way to the Chief’s office in one corner of the lodge.

As they stampeded across the mess hall to the small room that served the camp director as an office, they found another visitor ahead of them. The Utway twins almost fell over backward as they recognized the blue uniform and leather leggins of the man who held the door-knob, calling a parting sentence to the Chief standing within.

“If you fellows see or hear anything of him, just get to the nearest phone and call up the prison. They’ll know how to get in touch with us.”

It was the man whom they had stumbled upon at the wagon road, who had held them up at the point of a gun! The gun was in the crook of his right arm now, as he turned and caught sight of them.

“Why, hello, twins! Jumped on anybody’s neck lately?” he asked in a hearty voice, clapping on his felt hat and striding toward the door of the lodge. “So long. Be good boys!”

Jake stared at Jerry in wonderment, and Jerry stared back. Who was this stranger, whom they had first encountered in the woods? They were aroused by the voice of the Chief.

“Come in, boys. What have you there, Jake?” The Chief was the only person in camp who was always sure which brother was which. He had from long acquaintance discovered that Jerry had a tiny mole almost concealed under the bronze-colored hair that fell over his left temple, which mark served to distinguish him from his twin.

Jake stammered out his tale. As the Chief listened, his forehead knit into a puzzled frown.

“So it was Billy all the time, eh?” he said as Jake finished. “You were pretty clever to figure that out. I’m glad to hear that these things are safe, and I’m sure Terry Tompkins and Mr. Munson will be, too. But that makes the kitchen robbery all the more strange. With what we know now, it’s impossible to connect the loss of these things with the person who broke into the food-supply the other night. There’s still a thief loose around Lenape, boys, and for some minutes now I’ve had the feeling that I know who it is.” He placed Billy’s plunder on his desk, and sat down thoughtfully.

Jerry summoned up courage. “Excuse me, Chief—but who was that man that just left here? Jake and I saw him guarding the road yesterday afternoon. What’s he carrying a gun around for?”

The Chief spun about in his chair and faced them. “He’s looking for a thief, too,” he said slowly.

“Who?” both boys cried in unison.

“There’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you, I guess—I’ll have to make an announcement about it to everybody at lunch to-day. Boys, there’s a dangerous man loose in this part of the country. Last Saturday night a convict escaped from the state prison up beyond Elmville. He had some hours’ start before he was found missing. The warden thought it likely that he would head over this way, toward the mountains, where he might hide in the woods for days and never be found. Guards were sent out, but so far there’s been no sign of him. The man you just saw is one of the prison guards, who is watching over this way. He tells me the escaped prisoner is a man named Burk, serving a term of several years—for robbery.”

“Robbery!”

“Now you can see why I thought until now that this prisoner might be in the neighborhood and might have stolen this watch and ring. It’s too bad the prison people didn’t warn me before now—no telling what might have happened in the meantime. However, now we have been warned, and will be on our guard.”

“Did—did you tell the prisoner-keeper—the fellow who was just here—that somebody broke into the pantry?”

“Of course, Jerry. He seemed to think it might be an important clue, and is getting a crew of men together to search the woods around the camp more carefully. You see, there’s a reward offered for the capture of this criminal, and naturally everybody is eager to earn it. Now, be careful and don’t get very far away from the campus unless you have a councilor along, boys! An escaped convict is a mighty dangerous customer. And don’t say anything about what I’ve told you until after lunch.”

The Utway twins stared at each other again as the door of the office closed behind them. Jerry seized Jake’s arm in an excited grip. “Why didn’t you tell the Chief about the man you saw down by Fifteen the other night?” he whispered urgently.

“I didn’t have a chance. Besides, why should we give that prison guard all the glory of capturing the convict?”

CHAPTER VIII
THE DISAPPEARING ACT

The Chief’s announcement that an escaped convict was in their neighborhood fell like a bombshell in the midst of the campers assembled at lunch.

“All boys are forbidden to go out of sight of camp, unless a councilor is along,” he ended. “We must take precautions until this dangerous man is captured. Now, to-night we will assemble here in the lodge, for Stunt Night. Every tent-group will be expected to have an act or other stunt prepared, and prizes will go to the winners. Dismissed!”

The groups scattered from the mess-hall to their respective tents to pass the daily siesta hour which was set aside as a period of rest and quiet from the brisk, noisy turmoil of the camp’s activity. Mr. Jim Avery cocked his long legs up on the end of his bunk in Tent Ten. “We have the whole afternoon to get ready,” he observed to his followers. “That should give us plenty of time to work up a first-class stunt that will bring home the prize. Anybody got any ideas?”

Wild Willie Sanders spoke up. “We’ve got an edge on the other tents, haven’t we? Here we are with Chink Towner, the most famous Mandarin Magician in captivity. Say, I’ll bet we can put over a magic show that will knock the rest of the tents silly!”

“How about it, Chink?”

“Sure, that’s right,” Chink Towner agreed modestly. “We could do it, all right. I’ve got a lot of new tricks up my sleeve that nobody ever saw before. The best one, though, needs to have Jerry Utway, and that means we’d have to take Tent Eight into partnership with us.”

“That can be arranged, I think,” said Mr. Avery. “I’ll speak to Dr. Cannon about it. He knows it’s next to impossible to separate the twins. And with fourteen campers on the job, it ought to be some show. Well, what’s your trick?”

“Yes, what is it?” asked the Utway twins together.

“Well, it’s this way,” began the Mandarin Magician; “Wild Willie can announce a big display of old Chinese hocus-pocus. We fix up a place on the stage where I sit, and a crowd of you guys come around and want to see some tricks. Then Fat Crampton comes along, and then I do a few easy ones, just to show my stuff, and then——” He lowered his voice as his comrades gathered about to hear the plan. Lefkowitz was sent over to Tent Eight to bring in the other participants, who listened and agreed to the scheme for a combined stunt that would make a most amusing addition to the vaudeville program that night. As soon as Recall sounded, the two groups of actors made for the Council Ring, where they rehearsed excitedly most of the afternoon.

Sherlock Jones did not join in the preparations for Stunt Night. He retired alone to the dark-room, where he stared at a photograph and pondered plans of his own. The announcement that a reward had been offered for the capture of the escaped criminal had set his mind working furiously on the problem of the Tattooed Arm. Indeed, the Chief’s startling news was a leading topic of conversation in Lenape that afternoon; but when supper-time brought no further information, the subject was temporarily forgotten in anticipation of the evening’s entertainment.

No sooner had the dessert dishes been cleared away than the space in front of the blackened fireplace was transformed into a stage. Benches were ranged in rows for the seating of the camper audience, and a makeshift curtain of bed-sheets strung on a wire was hung across that end of the lodge. Darkness had just fallen when a boisterous crowd of leaders and boys took their seats, awaiting the drawing of the curtain on the opening act, announced by Sax McNulty, master of ceremonies, as “Captain Colby’s Army,” a Tent Fifteen Feature Production.

Joey Fellowes, who with his brother Ted made up the Lenape bugle corps, sounded Reveille on his muted instrument. The curtains parted to reveal a morning scene in Tent Fifteen. A great fuss was made by Ollie Steffins, dressed in a scout uniform with many medals and much gold braid, who in the person of Mr. Colby himself, went about getting the snoring sleepers to waken for morning drill. The drowsy boys were finally put on their feet and each armed with a broom-stick gun, with which they went through a series of clumsy maneuvers, knocking each other over the head, facing the wrong way, and otherwise tangling themselves in a travesty of a squad of rookies at drill. The concluding evolution brought them into line facing the audience, singing off key their rallying song:

“We are Mr. Colby’s army,

Mr. Colby’s army we,

We cannot shoot, we won’t salute,

What earthly good are we?”

The curtains closed amid cheers, boos, and stamping of feet, during which Mr. Colby sat with a self-conscious smile on his disciplinarian’s face.