THE MYSTERIOUS TRAMP

Dedication
TO MY CUBBY FRIENDS IN THE
ALL SOULS’ PACK, PETERBOROUGH

Black Bill led the girl through the crowd to the big tent.

Frontispiece. [See page 68.

THE MYSTERIOUS
TRAMP

BY
VERA C. BARCLAY
Author of “Danny the Detective,” etc.

London
C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.
Henrietta Street, W.C.2
1920

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE MYSTERIOUS TRAMP

CHAPTER I
BY FIRELIGHT

The night nursery was in darkness, save for the red glow of the fire, and the occasional flickering light of a little yellow flame that seemed to wake up every now and then and light up the room, casting strange black shadows on the ceiling. In three little white beds lay three boys. At least they should have been lying, but, as a matter of fact, two were sitting up, with expressions of sullen rage upon their tear-stained faces, and one was lying in a huddled heap beneath the bedclothes, sobbing.

“For goodness’ sake stop that beastly sniveling, you little cry-baby,” said David.

The sobbing ceased for a minute, then, from beneath the bedclothes, came the muffled voice of Nipper. “I—I’m not a cry-cry-cry baby.” The sobbing went on.

“Nipper,” said David sternly, “you have no reason to bleat like that. You only got four, an me and Bill got a dozen each.”

This brought Nipper from beneath the bedclothes.

“That’s ’cos I have more sense in my little finger than you two fat-heads have in the whole of your bodies. I trod hard on grandfather’s worst corn, and that made him drop the birch. I jolly soon picked it up, and threw it out of the window. And he couldn’t find nothing else to beat me with, so he let me go. It’s not for the beating I’m crying, it’s for something else. I was going to tell you about it, but as you’re both such beasts I shan’t now.”

Having delivered himself of this speech, Nipper retired under the bedclothes, and began a series of mournful sounds. Now, though David was ready of speech and full of ideas, Bill, his twin, was a man of action. It was always David who thought of splendid schemes, but Bill who carried them out. Leaning far out of his bed he reached for one of his boots, and, taking a careful aim, landed it with a thud upon Nipper’s huddled figure. This brought forth Nipper’s own special performance and chief means of defence, a siren-like shriek. As was to be expected, it brought Nurse to the door.

“Now then, you naughty boys,” she said, “if I hear another sound I shall go and tell your gran’pa.”

“You can jolly well go,” said David, “he’s lost the birch.”

“If you aren’t quiet at once,” continued Nurse, “I shall not allow you to go to the horseshow to-morrow.”

“That’s all right,” said David. “Grandfather has already forbidden us to go——”

“But we’re jolly well going all the same,” added Bill in an aside.

“You shan’t have any jam for breakfast,” said poor old Nurse in despair. This was a serious matter.

“Then here goes,” said Bill, in a spasm of rage, and he let fly his remaining boot.

It struck the old Nurse very hard on the hand. She had rheumatism, and the blow hurt her. With a little exclamation of pain she retired, and shut the door.

A regular bally-rag then began. Pillows flew across the room, and before the fight was finished Bill’s nightshirt was torn from top to bottom, and David’s nose was bleeding.

And in the playroom Nurse was talking sadly to Eliza as she darned the boys’ stockings. The piece of news she was giving Eliza was the very piece of news that Nipper had heard, and which had caused his tears.

“The master has given me notice,” she said, wiping her eyes. “He says it’s all my fault the way the boys behave, and it’s got so terrible he won’t stand it a moment longer. He’s given me notice, and he’s going to get a strict governess, who won’t stand any nonsense, and will get them into good discipline. From the day those twins were born I’ve looked after them—ten years, now. And Nipper’s just on eight—and I’ve got to leave them!” Poor old Nurse laid her head down on the basket of stockings and broke down. Since the boys’ parents had been drowned in a shipwreck the old woman had had them under her care, but they had repaid her with selfishness and disobedience.

The way the “young gentlemen up at the Hall” behaved was the talk of the village. They would steal fruit, not only from their grandfather’s glasshouses, but from the poor people’s little gardens. They would let out Farmer Johnson’s pigs, and chase them all over the village. There was nothing too bad for them to do.

“I pity the person as will have the looking after of them,” said Eliza. “I only hope the master will get someone really strict.”

CHAPTER II
A COUNCIL OF WAR

It was three weeks later that David called a Council of War in the garden. Nurse had departed with her boxes. Grandfather had engaged a “strict governess.”

The Council of War had met in the old pigsty, where all really secret Councils took place. This being a really important Council, the refreshments consisted of peaches and the best hothouse grapes—stolen, of course, from the hothouse, though the boys knew well enough the old gardener would get into trouble with his master, and as likely as not one of the under-gardeners would get the blame.

“And so the dragon is to arrive at six o’clock to-night,” said Bill. “Her name is Miss Prince.”

“Can’t you just see her?” said David, the imaginative one. “She will be very tall and bony, and about a hundred, with grey hair all screwed up in a little knob, and big round goggles, and teeth like an old horse, and a voice like—like—like——”

“Like the ugly sisters in the Cinderella pantomime,” said Nipper.

“And she will dress in a stuffy old black dress, all over buttons and spiky whalebone things,” added David.

“Well,” said Bill, “is war declared?”

“Yes!” shouted the other two.

“And we’ll have martial law. Nothing is too bad for Miss Prince,” interposed David.

“I say—frightfulness,” said Bill.

“Yes—the frightfulest frightfulness,” said the other two.

“We will jolly well show her we are not going to be ‘managed’ or ‘disciplined’ or bullied,” said David.

“We’ll bully her,” said Bill, “and I bet you she leaves in a week.”

“How shall we welcome her?” said David. “I should say an apple-pie bed, with worms and slugs in it.”

“Yes. Also mice in her room—they always hate mice.”

“And a booby trap on the door.”

And so the Council of War proceeded to draw up plans against the new governess.

Meanwhile, a train was speeding along between green fields and leafy woods. In a corner of a carriage sat a girl, looking out of the window, and thinking to herself, “What jolly country for scouting this would be!”

She looked about twenty-four or twenty-five. She had the kind of face a boy would call jolly, and the kind of nice blue eyes that seem to smile at you and make you feel—“This is a friend; one can talk to her and tell her things, and she will understand, although she is a grown-up.”

“Well,” said Bill, “is war declared?” “Yes,” came the determined reply.

[To face page 14.

Presently the girl sighed. “How jolly hard it was saying good-bye to the Cubs!” she thought to herself. “But I mustn’t ‘give in to myself’ and feel unhappy. After all, I am going to some more boys. Dear little chaps, they sound awfully jolly and a good handful to manage. I should feel rather homesick if it was not for the thought of them. But they are sure to give me a good welcome, and we will soon make friends.”

She smiled to herself, and the train thundered on between the green fields.

CHAPTER III
THE COMING OF MISS PRINCE

“Listen!” whispered David, “I hear the wheels of the carriage at the front door. Three groans for Miss Prince!”

The front door was opened, and Miss Prince came into the hall. She was just a little disappointed not to see the three boys waiting to welcome her, as she had expected.

“She’s not like the Ugly Sisters!” said Nipper in a voice full of disappointment. He was peeping through the balusters, the twins peering over his shoulders.

“I expect that way of smiling and pretending to look nice is just camouflage. She’s sure to be a perfect beast inside,” said David.

The booby trap unfortunately came down on the housekeeper’s head as she showed Miss Prince to her room. The boys distinctly heard Miss Prince laugh, and then pretend she had only coughed and try and comfort Mrs. Biggs. Then they heard her discover the mice in her chest of drawers.

“Mice!” she said. “Dear little things! I love mice. But oh, how cruel! Someone has tied them by their tails!” They heard her freeing the mice. “How untidy my bed looks!” came Miss Prince’s voice presently. They heard her open it, then she laughed.

“No go,” said Bill dejectedly. “It’s going to be harder work giving Miss Prince frightfulness than I thought. But we’ll stick to it, won’t we, boys?”

“We will!” said the other two.

And they did. Not one civil or friendly word could Miss Prince get from them, try as she would. They were rude to her; they disobeyed her every order; they pretended they could not read at all when she started lessons with them, and added up every sum wrong on purpose. They told her lies, and hid when she wanted them.

Perhaps their hard little hearts would have softened a little if they could have known how their rudeness hurt and disappointed Miss Prince, and how lonely she felt without her own friendly Cubs. But she didn’t let them see; she was always cheerful and patient.

A week passed like this, and Miss Prince, who had been determined not to give in, began to despair. Being kind to them was no use; punishing them was no use. Their grandfather was furious, and told Miss Prince that he saw she could not manage them. A friend of his had told him Miss Prince could manage forty fierce Wolf Cubs, and he had said she would easily be able to tame three little boys, however wild. But she had failed; it was not much use to go on trying. Then Miss Prince got a brilliant idea.

“Mr. Ogden,” she said, “I think I know a way in which those boys could be altogether changed and made into really good little chaps.”

Mr. Ogden grunted like a cross bear. “Do you?” he said. “I don’t.”

“Will you give a trial to my plan?” said Miss Prince.

“I’ll try anything under the sun,” said Mr. Ogden. “What’s your plan?”

“It is to let me write and engage a boy I know, named Danny Moore, to come and act as companion to the boys, and their own groom. Jones, tells me he needs help with their ponies, and is too old to go out riding with them much longer. This boy is a Patrol-leader in the Scouts. I have known him ever since he was quite a little chap. He is a splendid leader, and can manage the most difficult boys and turn them into good Scouts. He has a good knowledge of horses too. I know he would come at once if I wrote to him, and if it’s possible to do anything with your grandsons, Danny will do it.”

“Do as you like,” said Mr. Ogden sourly. “I wash my hands of the whole business.”

That night Miss Prince posted a letter to Danny. In it she told him of the almost hopeless job she had got—of taming three perfect little terrors. She asked him to come and turn them into Wolf Cubs for her. She told him to bring his uniform, and that she would tell him the plan she had made for the way he was first to see them when he arrived.

Danny answered that he would be there in three days, and Miss Prince’s hopes began to rise.

CHAPTER IV
“DANNY THE DETECTIVE”

Two days later, the boys having been even worse than usual, Miss Prince shut the door firmly and said: “Now, boys, I am going to give you a new punishment for this disgraceful behaviour. I am going to sit on the floor, and you three are to sit on the floor in a row in front of me, for twenty minutes, and keep perfectly silent.”

“Not much!” said Bill, with his cheekiest air.

Miss Prince sat down on the floor. “There was once a boy called Danny,” she began. “He was always known as Danny the Detective by his friends. One day a wonderful adventure happened to him.” The three boys stopped whistling and listened. Miss Prince went on, talking very quietly. They had to come nearer to hear. It got so thrilling, and they got so excited about Danny and the German spies, that before long they were sitting on the floor, as silent as mice, their eyes fixed on Miss Prince. More than half-an-hour had passed before the story was finished. Then they realized that for once they had done as they had been told, and they began to be as rude as ever.

“Of course, all that is a pack of lies!” said Bill.

David’s eyes were shining with excitement; he did so wish he was Danny himself. But he felt he ought to support his twin and keep up the frightfulness, so he made a rude remark, too.

“Danny is now a Scout,” said Miss Prince. “He is very fond of camping out in the wood and cooking his meals in a billy-can on a wood fire. Perhaps you will come across him one day when you are in Prior’s Wood. But I’m afraid he would not want you as his friends—you’re so awfully rude and selfish. I’m afraid he’d call you ‘little Huns’!”

“I don’t believe anything about Danny,” said Bill.

“Nor do I,” said the other two. But in their hearts they decided to visit Prior’s Wood.

It was the day after this strange new punishment had taken place. Bill, David and Nipper were having tea in the Play-room, when Miss Prince, who had looked anxiously out of the window many times during the last half-hour, heard the wheels of the dog-cart on the drive, and hurried downstairs. The cart had driven round to the stables, and there Miss Prince followed it.

As she came up, a boy had just jumped out, and was taking a kit bag from under the seat. He was a boy of fifteen, medium height, with a very sunburnt, cheery face, and eyes that looked straight at you when he talked, as if he had never had anything to hide or be ashamed of.

“Hullo, Miss Prince!” he cried, with a grin.

“Hullo, Danny!” she said. “How nice to see you again! You seem just like a bit of home!”

She led him into the house, through the great, oak-panelled hall, to her own little sitting-room. There they had a long talk. When they came out Danny was laughing.

“I think it’s a splendid plan,” he said. “I’ll do my best to make it come off successfully.”

CHAPTER V
IN THE WOODS

It was a glorious autumn morning—one of those mornings when the wind seems to have swept the world very clean, the sky is very blue and clear of clouds, the sun shines on the red-and-gold leaves, and you feel happy just to be alive. The boys woke up feeling almost good, but, remembering the campaign of frightfulness against Miss Prince which they were determined to carry out, they asked each other what they should do to-day.

“I’ll tell you what,” said David. “She said she was going to start a new plan for lessons this morning. It would annoy her awfully if we ran away all the morning, and she couldn’t start her precious plan! It’s such a ripping day, why should we sit in a stuffy schoolroom?”

“Right you are!” said Bill. “I vote we go and play wild buffaloes with Farmer Tomkinson’s calves. He’s just bought a lot of new ones, and if we let them out on to the heath, we could have some jolly good sport—especially if we take the dogs and the long carriage whip.”

“Hush,” said David. “Squat down before he sees us.”

[To face page 23.

“I shan’t come with you,” said Nipper. “I have a plan of my own.”

“Out with it, kid!” said Bill, twisting his small brother’s arm till he started his siren-shriek.

“Let go!” he yelled, “and I’ll tell you. I’m going to explore Prior’s Wood. Don’t you remember that story she told us? And she said we might find the Scout if we went in Prior’s Wood.”

“I think,” said Bill, “we’ll leave the calves for to-day, and go to Prior’s Wood. It’s probably all a pack of lies, but we might as well go and see.”

And so, after breakfast, before Miss Prince had time to call them for lessons the three boys ran out across the fields to the wood. They had not gone far when David stopped short.

“Hush!” he said. “Squat down before he sees us—quick!”

The other two followed his example, and squatted down, peering cautiously over a clump of bracken.

They had reached a little clearance in the wood, where the ground was carpeted with soft green moss, and a small stream gurgled noisily along. On the banks of the stream was a little hut, built of branches and bracken, between the trunks of three trees.

A little distance from this a bright wood fire burned, sending a steady column of blue smoke up into the sunny air. A billy-can boiled away, standing on a thick piece of wood, whilst on a big, moss-covered log sat a boy. He had bare, brown knees and bare, brown arms and a khaki shirt, his red neckerchief making a bright splash of colour among the greens and browns of the wood. He had a knife in his hand, and he was carving wonderful patterns on a straight ash stick he had cut for himself. As he worked he whistled softly.

The three boys, squatting in the ferns, watched him. Presently he got up and added some wood to his fire, and peeped into the boiling pot. Then he fetched an apple out of his hut, and sat down again on the log. Suddenly a robin swooped down on to a twig quite close, and stared with big, bright eyes at this boy who had come to share his own particular corner of Prior’s Wood.

The boy, just as if he knew the language of robins, began to whistle, very softly, in little trills. The robin cocked his head on one side and answered with much the same kind of whistle. Then he swooped down on to the end of the very log Danny was sitting on, and they went on with their whistling conversation.

“I believe he can talk to the birds!” whispered Nipper, with round eyes.

Just then an enormous water rat appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and began swimming across. Bill’s hand shot out instinctively for a stone.

“Shut up, you ass!” said David.

“But I could just hit him on the head beautifully,” said Bill.

“Sh—sh! The Scout will kill him, I expect, when he gets nearer. Let’s see how he does it,” whispered David.

But, strange to say, the Scout, after watching the big rat land, moved noiselessly across to his hut, and came out with a bit of cheese, a little piece of which he poked softly across to the bank with the end of his stick. The rat had vanished. But before long he came out, fetched the piece of cheese, and ran back to his hole. The Scout put another crumb, nearer this time. The rat came out and fetched that. Gradually he came nearer and nearer.

Presently he got so bold that he stayed and ate the crumbs of cheese quite close to Danny—and then sat up and cleaned his whiskers with his little pink hands, and seemed to be combing his fur and brushing his little round ears.

The three boys watched, fascinated. They had never before thought of making friends with a water rat and watching his habits. Their first thought had always been to kill the happy little creature, who was out enjoying the morning sunshine.

Suddenly Nipper could sit still no longer; he stretched his legs, which broke a rotten twig and made such a noise that Danny looked round and saw the three heads watching him through the bracken.

“Hullo!” he said. “Come and see my little camp.” He smiled and looked so friendly that the three boys got up and came half-shyly out into the open space.

CHAPTER VI
THE LAW OF THE WOLF CUB PACK

The mysterious boy of the woods took them into his hut, and showed them how it was built. Then he let them put wood on his fire, and after that he gave them each an apple.

“You pinched those from old Crookedshank’s, I know!” said Bill.

Danny looked surprised. “No,” he said; “I bought them from Mr. Cruikshank.”

“You silly!” said David. “He’s as deaf as a post, and there’s a big hole in his fence just by the apple-tree. Fancy buying apples!”

“Then you would have stolen them from a very poor and deaf old man? What a dirty trick! Besides, stealing is a sin, and no chap with a sense of honour would do it.” He looked very serious, and for the first time in their lives the boys felt really ashamed of themselves and had nothing to say.

But Danny had changed the subject. He showed them how to carve sticks. He told them all sorts of things about birds and squirrels and rats. But first of all he made them each a bow and some arrows, with pheasants’ and pigeons’ feathers, which they found in the woods, to make them go straight.

“I wish we could always stay with you,” said Nipper suddenly, “and live out in the woods, and learn to talk to the birds, and shoot with our bows, and be always happy, with no more rows and jawings and punishments.”

“Yes!” said David and Bill together. “And could you make us Scouts? We’d win lots of badges.”

Danny laughed. “You’re too young to be Scouts,” he said, “but you might be Wolf Cubs. Who are you?”

“We live up at the Hall,” said David. “Mr. Ogden is our grandfather.”

“Oho!” said Danny. “So you’re the little terrors I’ve heard so much about!”

The boys hung their heads.

“My word! you’re not the sort of chaps they have in the Cubs!” he continued. “From all I hear, you seem to be regular little Bolsheviks! Do you know, Cubs have to do a good turn for somebody every day, but you seem to do a bad turn to somebody every day—and more than one, too.”

The boys were silent.

“Squat down,” said Danny, “and I’ll tell you a bit about Cubs. It’s not all play, you know. Chaps who join the Cubs have to behave decently, whether they’re in uniform or not. Once you’ve taken the Cub Promise, you’re a Cub all the time, day and night. The Cubs have two laws they’ve got to keep. One is obedience—they promise to obey the grown-ups. Could you do that?”

“We never have,” said Bill, digging his fingers into the moss, “but we could if we tried.”

“Then the second law says you mustn’t give in to yourself—that means, you mustn’t do all you feel like doing, whether it’s right or wrong. You mustn’t steal Mr. Cruikshank’s apples, and say rude things to people, and tell lies, and fight each other.”

“It would be very hard to keep all that,” said Nipper, “but it would be worth it—to be Cubs.”

“And I think perhaps we should be happier,” said David thoughtfully. “I’m tired of doing frightfulness against Miss Prince.”

Then Danny told them about the Promise—first, loyalty to God. But they had to admit they never thought about God at all, never said morning or night prayers, never went to church, never did anything in order to please God.

Danny looked very serious. “Poor little chaps!” he said suddenly. “But you’ll learn to do better now, and God will forgive you for being so selfish and ungrateful.”

He told them a lot more about Cubs, and their eyes shone with excitement.

“If we come down here after dinner, will you make us into Cubs?” said David.

Danny laughed. “A Cub isn’t made as quickly as all that,” he said. “You will have to show you’re worthy of taking the Cub Promise and can keep the Cub Law. Oughtn’t you to be at lessons this afternoon?”

“Yes,” said the boys.

“Well,” said Danny, “if you go back and tell Miss Prince you’re very sorry you ran away this morning and beg her pardon, and then do your best at lessons this afternoon, you can ask her if you may come down here and have tea with me. Will you do that?”

It seemed to them very hard, but they said they would. And so the three boys went back to dinner with very new thoughts in their minds.

“I think,” said David, as they neared the house, “that we’ve been beasts all our lives, and somehow I didn’t see it till that Scout was talking.”

And so they went and found Miss Prince, and had it all out with her; and she forgave them freely, and they all shook hands and vowed friendship and loyalty for the future. At lessons they tried their very hardest and did quite well. Then they rushed down and had a glorious tea in the woods by Danny’s camp-fire.

“I’ll come home with you,” said Danny, when the evening began to close in.

“Hooray!” shouted the boys.

“Because you see,” said Danny, “I’m living at the Hall, too. Mr. Ogden has engaged me to be your companion and groom.” The boys went nearly mad with delight.

And as they walked home together, while the sun set in a glory of red and gold, and purple shadows crept out of the woods, they talked of how the boys would become Cubs—real, true, and faithful Cubs; and how they would get a few more and make a little Pack, and ask Miss Prince to be the Cubmaster.

That evening, when it had got dark and they were all squatting round the fire on the floor, Nipper suddenly said, “Are you Danny the Detective?”

“Yes,” laughed Danny. Then the Cubs fell on him, and smacked him on the back, and nearly tore him to pieces.

“Tell us your adventures,” said David. And so Danny began to tell them of his Cub days and the German spies.

And Miss Prince, looking at the happy group, said, in her heart, “Thank God!”

CHAPTER VII
A WOLF CUB COUNCIL

A Council was in progress; and once again it was in the old pigsty. But this time it was not a Council of War; frightfulness and rebellion were not the questions under discussion. No, it was a Wolf Cub Council, and Danny was seated upon the Council Rock—a huge boulder the boys had managed to drag into the pigsty with the help of one of the under-gardeners.

“I have a proposal to bring forward,” said Danny. “The Council (you’re the Council) can vote upon it when I have explained it. If you want to be Cubs we must form a Six. That means getting three more boys. I have kept my eyes open the last few days, and I have three names to propose.”

This was a splendid Council—it was so serious and important. The boys wriggled with excitement.

“Who do you propose?” said David.

“I propose, first, Hugh Burnett, the gamekeeper’s son. He’s a jolly good chap, and knows the woods and the surrounding country very thoroughly. All the people round think a lot of him. I should say he’s a born Cub.”

“Yes,” said Bill. “I think Hugh is all right. His father used to be our chief enemy, and chase us out of the woods. Once he gave David a thrashing for taking a nest of pheasants’ eggs. But he seems nicer now.”

“Then I suggest Jack Miles, the blacksmith’s boy. He’s a regular sport. I don’t believe he’s afraid of anything in the world. He ought to make a good Cub with a bit of training.”

“Yes,” said David. “He and Bill had the worst fight I ever saw, once. He made Bill’s nose bleed; it went on for half-an-hour. Bill broke one of his front teeth. He gave Bill a jolly good whacking, too!”

“Good!” said Danny, “that’ll probably mean they will be better friends now.”

Nipper was beginning to look anxious. “They’re all so big,” he said. “It’s bad enough having Bill and David, but with all that lot, what’ll happen to me?”

“I’ve thought of you, kid,” said Danny. “There’s a nice little chap would make a pair for you—Bobby Brown, Dr. Brown’s son. He’s only just eight, and a bit quiet, but you chaps will soon put some life into him.”

“Hooray, hooray!” said Nipper; “he’ll be my ally, and we won’t half show you fellows something.”

“Don’t forget the Cub spirit,” said Danny; “there’s going to be no more bullying now. Besides, the younger ones mustn’t show cheek to the Sixer and Second. Who will second my motion?”

David seconded the proposals, and the rest of the Council was unanimous.

“Carried,” said Danny. “Now let’s go and ask the boys if they’ll join the Six.”

CHAPTER VIII
“I PROMISE....”

The great day had come at last—the day when the six Cubs were to make their Promise. The gamekeeper, the blacksmith, and the doctor had said “Yes, certainly,” about their sons joining, and of course Hugh, Jack, and Bob were wild with delight at the idea. Mr. Ogden had grunted, and said, “Anything to keep them out of mischief,” when Miss Prince asked his leave to form the Six, and when she had mentioned something about funds, he had given her a £5 note. The order for kit was posted to headquarters, and to-day the boys were clad in dark blue jerseys, shorts (real short ones), and green neckerchiefs, and smart Cub caps.

When the question of a Sixer and Second came up Bill and David had announced, both at the same time, that he would be Sixer; but Danny had told them not to be so jolly cocksure, for he and Miss Prince had talked the matter over very seriously and decided to give Hugh the two stripes; for, as Danny said, he was a good chap, and would, he was sure, make a proper Sixer, always thinking of his Six before himself and trying to set a good example to the other boys.

David was to be Hugh’s Second; Bill (his twin), being the next oldest, took third place; Jack Miles, fourth; Nipper, fifth; and little Bobby Brown sixth.

And so they stood in a circle on this sunny Saturday afternoon, and Miss Prince, in Cubmaster’s uniform, stood before them with Danny at her side, six badges in his hand. Hugh was the first to come up. Standing at the half-salute, a look of determination on his face, he repeated the Promise slowly, clearly, and as if he said it with all his heart. As Miss Prince looked into his truthful blue eyes, she felt sure that he really meant the words he had said and would keep true to them all his life.

“I trust you to keep that Promise,” she said, adding, as she clasped his left hand, “you are now a Cub and a member of the great Brotherhood of Scouts.” Danny put his cap on for him, and Miss Prince gave him the badge.

Then he brought up each of his boys in turn. They all said the Promise clearly, and with a true intention of keeping it. Then they gave the Grand Howl.

“Now, Cubs,” said Miss Prince, “you mustn’t forget that you’ve got to uphold the honour of the Brotherhood. To-morrow morning,” she added, “we will all go to church together in uniform, and you must renew your Promise before God, and ask Him to help you to keep it faithfully as long as you live.”

Then the Circle was dismissed, and the newly-made Cubs dashed off across the lawn, turning head over heels as they went. There was a splendid tea laid out on the terrace, with a huge plum cake that was the birthday cake of the Pack.

The following Saturday was a holiday. They had chosen, of course, to spend it in the woods with Danny. In the afternoon the three other Cubs joined them, and a fire-lighting competition began. Danny was to be the judge of the fires—he was to give points in getting a good fire burning for speed, and for the way the fireplace had been made. So while the Cubs worked hard, he sat on a log and thought.

He liked his new job. It was great fun training this keen little lot of Cubs; and he was so pleased to be able to help Miss Prince in this way. But as he thought over things there was something that puzzled him. The boys’ grandfather was such a strange old man. No one ever saw him smile, or got a pleasant word from him. The village people hated him; he was a hard landlord and a harder master. And somehow he never seemed happy, though he was rich, and had a beautiful house and all a man could desire.

“He looks to me,” said Danny to himself, “as if he was always afraid, always dreading something—as if he had an awful secret weighing on his conscience.” And then the detective instinct in him began weaving mysterious stories around the gloomy figure of Mr. Ogden. Little did he think, however, that before many months had passed a strange adventure would befall him which should clear away the mystery surrounding the Cubs’ grandfather. It was a call from Nipper that brought him back to the present—“Danny, Danny, I’ve done!” Before long the six fires were complete and the judging had commenced.

It was actually Nipper’s fire that won! He had had the luck to find some large smooth stones with which to build his fireplace. Also he had had the happy thought of borrowing Danny’s hat to fan his fire with. Now he strutted with pride like a young turkey-cock.

“All bring your wood,” said Danny, “and pile it on to Nipper’s fire. We will boil the water on it for tea.”

Before long tea was made and the seven boys were squatting round ready to begin. It was then that a figure came on the scene—a figure whose coming was the beginning of a long series of adventures such as the Cubs had never even dreamed of.

CHAPTER IX
THE COMING OF THE MYSTERIOUS TRAMP

He came down the little path, through the bracken, walking rather unsteadily, like a man who is weak from illness or hunger. The evening sun, slanting through the trees, fell on his shabby figure. He halted as he saw the Cubs, and stood irresolute, as though wondering whether he should go back or proceed. The Cubs, turning from their fire, gazed in surprise at the intruder. But at first they did not notice his ragged appearance, for something in his face, his eyes, held them. His face was very thin, but it was a beautiful face. He had very clear, grey eyes—mysterious eyes that seemed to be looking away into the invisible—looking for something they never found. There was something very sad about his face, but there was also something about it that made the boys feel that he was a friend.

All this was the first impression that the man gave them as their eyes met. The next moment they were looking him over critically. With this look they noticed that his clothes were torn and ragged, his boots nearly worn out, but that he was very clean and carefully shaved, and had very white hands with long fingers. “Hands like an artist,” said Danny to himself. The man turned about as if to go back along the path, but Danny jumped up and stepped towards him. This mysterious stranger could not be allowed to go away like this. There was something about him that appealed strongly to Danny’s imagination.

“I say, sir,” he said (the sir came out involuntarily), “won’t you come and have some tea by our fire?”

The man turned, surprised, and then meeting Danny’s eager eyes, smiled.

“Well,” he said, “it’s very good of you to ask me—I’m afraid I’m trespassing.”

“No, you aren’t,” said Danny, “come on. Fill up that mug, David, and pass the grub along. Won’t you sit on this log, sir?”

The man sat down close to the fire. He took the mug Danny handed to him and a large slice of bread and butter. This he ate in silence—he was evidently very hungry. The boys watched him. No one spoke. At last Nipper broke the silence.

“Who are you?” he said.

“A tramp,” replied the man.

Once again silence fell. Then Nipper broke it again.

“You aren’t a very ordinary kind of tramp,” he said. “I think we will call you the mysterious tramp. You will stay with us, won’t you, and tell us things? We were just wanting an adventure.”

The man smiled. His smile came slowly, as if it was rusty from long disuse. And David decided that he was so queer and silent because he had probably lived for many years upon a desert island and forgotten how to talk.

“Am I an adventure?” said the man. “And what things do you want me to tell you? Stories, I suppose. I used to tell stories once, but I’ve forgotten them all. There was a little kid I—I knew. She was always pestering me for stories. But that was long ago.”

“Oh, do try and remember them,” said the Cubs, crowding round him. The tea and bread and butter and birthday cake seemed to have cheered up the mysterious tramp no end, and he seemed to be remembering how to talk. Before long he was even laughing.

By dint of much questioning the Cubs managed to discover quite a lot about him. That he had once been an artist, for one thing, and could still draw fascinating little pictures with bits of burnt wood on smooth, flat stones. He seemed to like drawing little girls better than boys, which was a pity. They also discovered that once he had lived in a little house on the edge of a wood, and could make the calls of cuckoos and wood-pigeons by blowing through his clasped hands. Also he knew all sorts of things about the habits of fox cubs and squirrels and hedgehogs.

The sun sank down behind the distant woods. The autumn evening closed in, blue and misty. The harvest moon crept up, orange-coloured and enormous above the trees. But still the Cubs and the mysterious tramp sat in the red glow of the fire. Nipper was on the tramp’s knees, and Hugh and David sat pressed up against his legs. Bill, the practical one, kept stoking the fire so as to prevent the party coming to an end.

Suddenly David gripped the tramp’s leg. “Look—a ghost!” he whispered; but Danny laughed. “It’s Miss Prince coming to look for you,” he said.

Miss Prince, a white scarf thrown over her dark hair, stepped out of the shadow of the trees into the circle of light.

“You are having a late birthday party, kiddies,” she said. Then she saw the stranger by the light of the fire, and stared at him in surprised silence.

“This,” said Nipper, putting his arms round the man’s neck, “is our mysterious tramp, and that,” he said, with a nod of his head, “is Miss Prince. She’s very nice, really.”

The mysterious tramp got up and stepped back into the blue darkness beyond the bright glow of the fire.

“It’s time you kids were in bed,” he said, “and that I was back on the roads.”

“Yes,” said Miss Prince, “come along.”

The Cubs were about to raise a cry of protest, when Danny whispered “Cub Law.” This was the secret sign between them when they forgot.

“All right, Miss Prince,” said Bill. “But let us just say good night to our tramp.” They pressed round him. “You will come back to-morrow, won’t you?” they pleaded.

“No, no,” said the man. “I must go back to the roads. But it’s been awfully jolly, to-night. Thank you for being pals. I shan’t forget you, kiddies.”

Very reluctantly the Cubs went away with Miss Prince, but Danny did not go with them. Stepping out of the circle of light into the shadow, he walked down the path, where in the yellow moonlight he could see a dark figure ahead. The mysterious tramp was not going to escape so easily.

CHAPTER X
BY MOONLIGHT

For a moment Danny stood on the path, just beyond the red glow of the fire, and wondered what he should do. He could hear the voices of the Cubs telling Miss Prince all about the mysterious tramp and the crackling of their steps as they walked away through the bracken fern and undergrowth. Ahead, along the path, he could see a dark figure walking a little unsteadily.

The moon had mounted higher in the grey, star-pricked sky. Mystery, adventure, romance—Danny felt it was very near, and yet it was walking away from him, a black figure, silhouetted against a silvery distance. He must stop it from going—but how?

Without knowing exactly what he meant to do he began running, and had soon caught up the tramp.

“Sir,” he said, “I say, sir!”

The man turned round. “Well?” he said in his strange, sad voice.

“I wish you wouldn’t go away,” said Danny.

“Why?” said the tramp.

“Well, because—because we’ve just made friends, and if you go tramping along the roads we may never see you again. Besides, it’s going to be a cold night, and you won’t have anywhere to sleep. And I don’t believe you ought to be tramping with nothing to eat. You look as if you were ill.”

The man had turned, and was looking at Danny curiously.

“You’re right,” he said. “The roads are all very well when you’ve got money or food, and the nights are warm. But I’ve only had one meal in the last two days. I hate begging. When they give—and give with a smile—it’s all right. But when they refuse—well, I can’t ask again that day.” He shivered, and drew his tattered coat closer round him.

“Come back to the fire,” said Danny, “then we can talk. I’ll show you a good place to spend the night. When you’ve had a bit of a rest and some grub you’ll feel better.”

Half reluctantly the tramp followed him back to the fire, and sat down once more on the log.

There was silence for a few minutes. Then the tramp spoke.

“I don’t know why you are so kind to me,” he said. “Do you know, while I sat there, with a kiddy on my knee, and the others round, I was happy again—I seemed to forget everything, as one forgets a bad dream.”

Danny poked the fire with his foot. “What was your bad dream?” he asked.

The tramp did not answer for a very long time. Then he said: “I’ve never told it to any one. In fact it’s over seven years since I spoke to any one as a friend. I will tell it to you, as you have asked me to. Silence is best—but just for once, sympathy is good. My bad dream is a spoiled life, and seven years in prison.”

Danny gasped. Then, as the tramp was silent, he stirred the fire up into a blaze and drew nearer to him.

“It wasn’t your fault, was it, sir?” he said. “Tell me the story.”

CHAPTER XI
THE TRAMP’S STORY

“I lived,” said the tramp, “in a little house on the edge of a wood just outside a village. I had a little daughter. She was more like a fairy than a child. Her mother died when she was a wee girl. I was an artist. I used to paint pictures of the woods and lanes and trees—the woods by moonlight, the woods at sunrise, the woods all green and blue in spring; the woods looking like dark, solemn churches on winter afternoons, with the red and gold and purple sunset showing through the fine black traceries of the trees like the stained-glass windows of a Gothic cathedral, and blue mist hanging about like incense. And somehow there were always fairies peeping out somewhere in my pictures—Mariette expected them. And after all, what are artists for if not to see what ordinary people miss and put what they see into their pictures? We had no friends, Mariette and I—we didn’t want any. We had each other and the fairies.

“Sometimes I used to spend the night out in the woods, getting pictures into my head to paint by day, or so as to catch the very first glimmer of golden clouds for a picture of the sunrise fairies. I used to leave Mariette at the cottage of my old nurse, whom she loved very much. It was on one of these sunrise days that my bad dreams began.

“Mariette was just seven. I had left her with the old nurse, and had started out to spend a night in the woods about five miles away. I took a few things with me so as to camp in the bracken, and be fresh and ready to paint at dawn. As I walked through the village, I chanced to meet a man that Mariette and I always called ‘the wicked uncle.’ He was the only person in the place that we did not like. He lived in a square, grey house, with dirty windows, and most of the blinds drawn down. He had a mean, cruel face, and little eyes like a rat. We were quite sure no fairies lived in his garden—it was a sad, dull garden, with no flowers.

“As I passed him that evening at dusk, he said, ‘Good evening. Going on a painting expedition?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But surely,’ said the wicked uncle, ‘you can’t paint by moonlight?’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I am going to sleep out in the woods, and paint at sunrise.’ ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘and what happens to your little girl?’ ‘She stays with Mrs. Binks,’ I answered. I was getting tired of his questions. ‘Going far?’ he called after me. I had grown impatient. ‘Yes, miles and miles,’ I shouted. I felt angry to think of his having pried into our private affairs. Somehow I did not sleep well on my bracken bed. I kept seeing the face of ‘the wicked uncle,’ and his little peering eyes in the dusk.

“After sunrise I painted for a few hours, and then started home. It was nine when I reached Mrs. Binks’ cottage, where I had gone to call for Mariette to come back and help me cook my breakfast. But she was not there, nor was Mrs. Binks.

“I went on to our cottage, but they were not there either. So I made myself some tea and fried an egg, and just as I was sitting down to begin, I heard the sound of feet on the cobbled path outside. It was a strange, tramping sound, and I expected to hear a rap on my knocker. But to my surprise the door was opened from outside, and for a moment I saw the cunning face of the ‘wicked uncle.’

“Then a police inspector and three constables marched in. I was too much surprised to speak. It was the inspector who broke the silence. ‘I arrest you,’ he said, ‘on a charge of forgery.’ Click, click, and handcuffs were on my wrists.

“Of course, I said I knew nothing about forgery, and was pretty rude, too, I’m afraid, as I was angry. But the inspector laughed drily, and said he had a very clear case against me. I was not quite such a clever fellow as I thought. In a moment there would be some very pretty evidence, so I had better leave off arguing. ‘Lead the way, Mr. Crale,’ he added, turning to the ‘wicked uncle,’ who thereupon produced a bunch of skeleton keys and led the way through my kitchen, followed by the inspector and two constables.

“I told the two bobbies who were left to guard me exactly what I thought of Mr. Crale; but they grinned at my remarks, and one of them said: ‘’E’s done a good turn to us police, anyway. A long time we’ve been searching for the ringleader of your gang, and we shouldn’t never have found you if it ’adn’t ’a’ been for Mr. Crale. A clever gentleman he is.’

“Just then the party came back. I had heard them stumping down my cellar stairs. They carried three great chests which Mr. Crale unlocked with his skeleton keys. One contained an enormous number of bank notes. Another a curious set of instruments I could not understand. A third was full of letters and papers. ‘A very pretty little press you’ve got down there,’ said the inspector. ‘We’ll come back for that, later.’

“Well, to make a long story short, I was taken away in a motor car. I begged to be allowed to see Mariette, but Mr. Crale told the inspector I had sent Mariette away the day before to stay with some friend in London, and was only trying to find a way to escape by asking to see her now. I was tried, and the case against me was extraordinarily clever. There were papers and letters and documents all pointing to my guilt; and when I pleaded not guilty, and accused Crale of being the forger himself, and of using me to cover his own guilt, they only smiled, as much as to say what a fool I was to go on denying what was so obvious.

“When I said I must see Mariette and Mrs. Binks they told me it was no use talking like that, as they had my letter in their possession making over my daughter to one of my accomplices, who had unfortunately managed to escape, and had my daughter with him. And so I was cast into prison, and all that I had—not much—was taken to pay my supposed debts.

“There were no fairies in prison, nor Mariette. But the worst—the worst thing of all was that I did not know what had become of her. I nearly went mad. Before long I became very ill. Nearly a year I spent in the prison infirmary. Then I served six long years in the cells. Three months ago I was set free.”

The tramp’s clear, sad voice ceased. Danny was breathing hard. Bitter rage filled his soul. He dared not speak, for he felt the words he would utter would not be Scout-like. Then he remembered that the man had said he wanted sympathy. He did not know what to say—no words could possibly express the sympathy he felt. He gripped the tramp’s cold hand. “No one can know how ghastly it must be for you, sir,” he said huskily; “no one, except God.”

Silence fell between them. The fire had burned very low. At last Danny spoke. “Why are you a tramp?” he said.

“Because,” said the man slowly, “I have a quest—two quests. The first is to find my little Mariette. Day and night in prison I dreamed of finding her. When I came out I just started walking and walking, looking for her. I have no money to travel in any other way. I know no trade. All I could do was to paint, and I can’t paint now. You must have a happy heart to paint pictures of woods and fairies. And so I tramp and tramp, and pray every day that God will guide me to where my little Mariette is waiting for her daddy to find her in this long game of hide-and-seek.

“Do you know, whenever I come to a cross-road I kneel down and pray with all my heart to God to make me take the right road that will lead me to her at last. Then I turn round three times with my eyes shut and take the road I face. When I came down that little path towards your fire it was because when I opened my eyes I was not facing any road but the stile into the wood. I took the path, somehow feeling that something was going to happen.”

“Perhaps God sent you this way because He means us to find Mariette for you. Did you notice the little grey church near the cross-roads?”

“Yes, yes,” said the tramp, “that was why I felt I must take the path. I saw the statue of St. Antony over the door—St. Antony, the saint who finds lost things.”

“Yes,” said Danny, “I thought of that, too.”

The tramp stood up. Then suddenly he laughed an almost happy laugh. “‘Danny the Detective,’ the Cubs called you,” he said. “Well, Danny, it’s done me good to talk to you. And I believe between you and St. Antony I shall get my little fairy back again. God is very good.”

So Danny led the mysterious tramp through the wood to a deserted cottage that a gamekeeper had once lived in. He gathered some dry bracken and with this and his own camp blankets made him a bed. A good supper of steak pie and potatoes and roly-poly pudding had been kept hot for Danny by the kind old cook. That night the tramp enjoyed the best meal he had had for seven years; but he did not know that Danny went to bed on a supper of biscuits left over from tea.

Danny led the mysterious tramp to a deserted cottage.

[To face page 50.

A bottle made a fine candlestick, and the old cottage looked quite cosy by the time Danny had finished arranging it.

“Good night, sir,” he said at last. “I hope you’ll sleep well. To-morrow we must have a proper pow-wow about things. My word, the Cubs won’t half be pleased to find you here.”

CHAPTER XII
THE SECOND QUEST

The dew lay thick and white on the grass; hips and haws made bright splashes of colour in the early morning sunlight; the robins sang, the larks soared, the woodpeckers tapped—but Danny noticed none of them. With his hands behind him and his head bent, he walked across the field, deep in thought.

Last night, with the pale moon and the red glow of the fire, and the tramp’s sad story, all seemed like a strange dream. And what he had said, himself, seemed like a dream too, for he had promised the tramp that he would undertake to find his lost daughter.

Somehow he felt so sure that he was meant to do so. He had asked the tramp to stay in the deserted cottage for the night, and promised to have a pow-wow the next day as to how they should commence the search.

But in the morning light things did not seem so possible and easy. After all, it was seven years ago that the girl had vanished. She had been stolen, too, by malicious people; and the scene of the plot against the artist was many miles away.

The police and the court had been fooled by the gang of forgers, and had refused to make any inquiries about the artist’s little girl. It would be a hopeless quest for a Scout to start asking questions about an ex-convict’s past. What on earth could Danny say to the tramp?

He had reached Prior’s Wood, and still no idea had occurred to him. All he could think of was that they should get their poor friend to stay there awhile, and recover his strength and his spirits. It might be possible, then, to get him work or perhaps he would feel able to begin painting again, and get a job in that line.

When Danny reached the cottage the tramp was sitting outside it in the sun. His hair was all wet from his wash in the stream. He looked, somehow, quite happy, and he seemed so absorbed in his own day-dreams that he did not notice Danny as he came up, until he said “Good morning!”

“Hullo, Danny!” he replied. “I’ve slept better on your bracken bed than I’ve done for many years. And I’ve dreamed—oh, such lovely dreams! All about my little Mariette. I feel quite happy again. It’s made me long to paint again, and I’ve been finding no end of pictures in this wood, ever since sunrise!”

Danny laughed, but he felt more like crying inside. There was so little chance of finding the girl, and yet the tramp was beginning to count on it as if it was already done.

But somehow Danny felt that he was meant to find the girl, and his spirits rose. For nearly an hour he and the artist-tramp discussed pictures. Then Danny made a fire, and boiled a billy of tea, and produced a loaf and some butter out of his haversack.

“About twelve o’clock,” he said, “you’ll have six wild Wolf Cubs descending upon you. They yelled with joy when I told them their ‘mysterious tramp’ was still here! Now I must get back and take them to church.”

So he said good-bye to the tramp and went back to the house, whistling.

Out of the little grey church at the cross-roads came the Cubs, very demurely. But no sooner were they outside the churchyard gate than they gave vent to a wild yell, and, tumbling over the stile, tore off down the path to the gamekeeper’s cottage.

When Danny arrived with the big basket of lunch, he found them very happy. The tramp had apparently turned into a most dangerous grizzly bear, and the Cubs into intrepid hunters.

All the afternoon their mysterious friend told them stories. When at last it was time for them to go Danny saw them home, and then came back to the cottage. He stoked up the fire and sat down by it.

“Sir,” he said, “when you told me your story last night, you said you were tramping the roads because you have two quests. One was to find your little girl. You did not tell me the other.”

The tramp’s face clouded. His kind grey eyes suddenly became as hard as steel. He did not answer for some time. Then he spoke slowly.

“My second quest is this,” he said; “to find the fellow who wronged me, and reap my revenge!”

Danny was taken aback. This was so different from the kind, jolly artist of this morning. Suddenly he realized a little the bitterness of soul produced by those seven years’ unjust confinement, and by the cruel loss of his child.

He saw the whole story in a new light and understood it better. More than ever did he long to help this man, and yet those words, spoken so deliberately, filled him with horror. Revenge is a grievous sin. How could this man pray every day to find his daughter, and expect God to hear his prayers, while, in his heart of hearts, there was revenge?

“Well,” said the tramp, staring at Danny, “what’s the matter?”

“Oh, sir,” cried Danny, “then we shall never find Mariette!”

“What do you mean?” said the tramp.

“I mean,” said Danny, “that the only possible chance of finding her is for God to answer your prayers. And He won’t do that till you forgive your enemies.”

The tramp scowled darkly.

“You’re only a boy,” he said; “you don’t understand. There are some things a man can’t forgive.”

There was nothing more to be said. Danny’s heart was heavy as he went to bed that night.