It all began the morning after a Zepp raid. The village of Dutton had had a very narrow escape. Six bombs had been dropped in the night, but not a single person had been hurt. One sad thing had happened, however, and Danny Moor was the first one to make it known in the village, and the first one to decide how the damage should be put right. The Huns had dropped a bomb thirty yards from the little grey church, and a great piece of metal had smashed to fragments a beautiful stained-glass window. Danny was sad, for the Cubs loved that window very much. It represented the shepherds at Bethlehem on the first Christmas morning, and the Cubs had discovered to their delight that the Child Christ in His Mother’s arms had His two fingers raised, as if in the Cub salute! So they looked upon the little chapel where the window was as their special corner of the church, and it was there that the monthly church parade took place. Now, the window lay in splinters of shimmering glass upon the floor, and the morning sun streamed through a jagged hole where before used to be the little figure of the Holy Child, smiling down upon the Cubs. But as Danny stood looking sadly at the blue sky through the hole, a bright idea came to him, and he made a vow that before long a new window should be put up in the place of the broken one, and that he and the Cubs would pay for it.
2

After school that morning he got the other Sixers and Seconds to come and hold a special council in the corner of his garden, and then he told them the sad news. “But I’ve vowed we’ll put up a new window,” he said; “will you help?” They all agreed at once, and Fred Codding, practical as usual, began to count the cost. “It’ll cost an awful lot,” he said, “I should think nearly a pound.” “Oh!” said the others. “Well,” continued Fred, “there’s eighteen of us; say we each gave sixpence, that would be 9s. Then my six has got 2s. we saved up for buying a bat—we’ll give that.” “Eleven bob,” said Danny, “good.” “I say,” said Freckles, “what about asking Mr. Fox to give that 5s. the squire gave him for our picnic next Saturday?” “Good idea,” said one of the others, “that’s sixteen bob. I bet we can raise four more somehow.”
3

So directly school was over that afternoon they dashed down to their chaplain to tell him the splendid good turn they were going to do. He was very pleased. But he said he thought ￡1 would not do it. He looked up the cost of stained-glass windows in a big book. “I’m afraid it will be ￡20,” he said. The Cubs did not gasp nor show what they felt.
4

“All right, sir,” said Danny. “We’ll get ￡20, somehow—won’t we, boys?—’cos we’ve promised to.”

They were rather silent as they walked home. And yet they felt sure something would turn up to enable them to keep their promise. As they parted they promised each other to think out a good idea, and never to give up till they had earned enough money for the window.

. . . . . . . .

The next day Danny had a bright idea. It was this: that the Pack should start wastepaper collecting. “I’ve been doing sums all the morning,” said Danny, “and I’ve found out that we could get ￡20 in seven months if we worked hard. Of course it would take all our Saturdays.”
5

“I suppose you are going round with your baby’s pram,” said Freckles. Danny punched his head for him, and then explained proudly that the Scoutmaster had promised the use of the trek cart. At that the Pack gave a howl of delight, and the waste-paper scheme was passed unanimously by the council. The ￡20 began to seem more possible now; and the Pack meant to do its best.

. . . . . . . .

It was a month later that something happened which set Danny’s detective’s heart beating fast with hope and excitement. The Pack had been slaving hard at waste paper, and had already collected and sold ￡3 worth. Danny, tired with the day’s work, was leaning against his garden gate in the cool of the evening when his old friend, the village policeman, sauntered up.
6

“Hello, Danny the Detective,” he said, “come and have a look at my old sow—she’s got a litter of ten little ’uns, born this morning.” Danny loved baby pigs, and so he went with Mr. Bates at once. But as soon as Mr. Bates had him in his own yard, and out of earshot of other people, he forgot about the pigs, and turned to Danny with a solemn look on his face. “I want a conversation with you, private-like,” he said. “I’m going to tell you something, if you’ll promise never to speak a word to any other folks about it.” “I promise on my honour as a Wolf Cub,” said Danny. “Go ahead, guv’nor.” “Well,” said Mr. Bates, “you done good work with them German spies last autumn. You’ve got a proper detective’s brain, you have. I want you just to keep your eyes on Mr. Bulky, him what goes round tuning up the rich folks’ pianers. I don’t say as how I have anything at all against him at present, but I don’t like the looks of him. Don’t you say a word, but just you keep your eyes open, and poke about, careful-like, round his place, and let me know if you find out something. I’m afraid to say anything at the police station, for fear he finds out he’s being watched. So I says to myself, ‘I’ll put Danny the Detective on his tracks.’”