"Thank you kindly," said Fido.

"The pleasure is mine," said Scoutmaster Ned.




CHAPTER XVI

FOOTPRINTS


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

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

Alas, Scout Harris!

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