Mr. Bulky was a man with a fat, pale face and shifty little eyes. He bicycled about all over the neighbourhood with a small black bag, and tuned the pianos in the big houses. When he was not out tuning pianos he would always be found either playing pieces by Mendelssohn in his front parlour, or attending to his famous prize fowls. These he was very proud of, and would often travel to distant parts of the country with a hen in a basket to exhibit her at some poultry show. He even went to the Continent, sometimes, to buy poultry and pigeons. No one in Dutton liked him. He had lived there only about five years. His sister, a very stout person, called Miss Bulky, kept house for him. He had a large cottage on the outskirts of Dutton. And now Mr. Bates, the policeman, suspected him, and had put Danny on his track! Danny, of course, was delighted. For one thing, it was an honour to have a policeman ask his help like that. But most of all he was pleased because he had begun to thirst for another adventure, and he was afraid, having had such a glorious one before, it could never be his luck to have another. “Poke about his place careful-like,” the policeman had said. But Danny found it no easy job. If you crept up at the back of the house, all the horrid hens in the long runs began cackling (like the geese on the Capitol), and if you went up by the front, a beastly mongrel suddenly leapt out of his kennel with a yell, and made a row like several dog fights. This brought Miss Bulky out of the house, looking as fearsome as “Mrs. Bung,” of the Happy Family Cards.
8

So Danny had to content himself with making sketches of Mr. Bulky’s footmarks and bicycle tracks, and taking notes as to what time he went out and what time he came in.
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. . . . . . . .

It was a glorious Saturday in June. A team of Cubs had worked hard all the morning and collected more sacks of waste paper than usual. They had also made a more than usually ghastly mess with it in Pack headquarters. And they had, I am sorry to say, played “trench warfare” and “bayonet charges” with last week’s load. They were just going home, at 1 o’clock, to get dinner and a wash, before starting out for a long-promised expedition to the river, when Mr. Fox, the Cubmaster, arrived on the scene. “My word,” he said, “what a frightful mess! It’s a pity you’ve done that, because the paper has all to be sorted and packed this afternoon, ready to be called for very early on Monday morning. I had hoped you would have got on with it this morning. Now I’m afraid I shall have to tell off three boys for the job this afternoon.”

“But, sir, we are going to the river this afternoon,” they said.
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“Yes,” said Mr. Fox, “that’s just why it was a pity you were such little asses as to upset the sacks already packed, and not have got on with to-day’s sorting. Three boys must stay behind and do the work, and when they have done, they can follow on.”

Someone murmured something sulky about its not being fair. Someone else said he would do it to-morrow. “No,” said Mr. Fox, “to-morrow’s Sunday, remember.” “Who’s got to stay, sir?” asked Danny, thinking how cool the river would be this afternoon, and how nice tea in the old punt would be after a swim.

Mr. Fox looked at the team. “Well,” he said, “judging by the filthy condition of your face, young Danny, I should think you’d done a lot of rolling about in the ‘trenches’ yourself. You might have known better, being a Sixer. You must be one. Then this Second, here, is the next dirtiest; you’ve had your play, so it’s only fair you should have the clearing up. And Ginger hasn’t had a fatigue for a long time! I shall expect the waste paper properly packed, and all the newspaper sorted from it and tied in bundles, and this hut quite clean and ready for Sunday.”
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In a chastened mood the team went home to dinner. They knew Mr. Fox was in the right, so there was nothing to grumble about.

At 2 o’clock the Pack went off, towels round necks, and a cheery whistle to keep everyone in step. Three sorrowful Cubs watched them go, and then turned into the hut to face a hot and dirty job.

Thicker and thicker flew the dust. “Talk about germs,” said Danny; “it’s all very well to teach us hygiene, and then ask us to swallow germs by the pound.”

“Waste paper!” said Ginger, “I call it just dust-bins.”

“There are more sacks than usual this week,” said Danny.

“Yes,” replied Philip, the Second of the Blacks. “We got one from old Bulky’s. They won’t generally give us any paper, but we saw his servant carrying it down to the rubbish heap. She said she had orders to burn every scrap herself. But we got her to give it to us.”
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“Oh,” said Danny, thoughtfully.

“I vote we don’t open any of those sacks,” said Ginger. “Mr. Fox won’t ever know they weren’t sorted. It would save heaps of time.”
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“It wouldn’t be fair,” said Danny. “He’s trusted us to do it—we must do it properly. Besides, we get more money if it’s properly sorted, and we want that twenty quid for the window.” And so an argument began. Everybody was hot when it started, but they got hotter and hotter. Ginger said he would not do a stroke of work unless Danny agreed not to sort the sacks that were not open. Philip was so offensive that Danny had to smack his head for him. And so it happened that these two young slackers departed for home and tea, and Danny found himself faced with the entire job alone. At first he thought he would chuck it up and go home, too. Then he decided not to “give in to himself.” And finally he remembered that every minute he worked he was serving the Holy Child, by earning money for the window, and he began to take a delight in getting as hot as possible, and almost relished the mouthfuls of dust he had to swallow. He battled with the sacks with the ardour of a Crusader fighting for the great cause, and suffered the discomfort in the spirit of a martyr. And when he came to the last sack, he was truly rewarded.
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. . . . . . . .

It was long past tea time, for sorting the paper unaided was a long job. But Danny was determined he would not leave the hut until he had completely finished the job, and got the place swept clean and the room arranged for Sunday. It would be a surprise for the boys and Mr. Fox to-morrow morning, for he knew the Pack would not be coming back to headquarters that evening, but would dismiss in the village and go straight home. He was nearly tired out by the time he got to the last sack. Untying the string, he emptied the dusty contents on the floor, and picked out the newspaper, waste paper, and cardboard. He was about to shovel back the waste paper when his eyes fell on a scrap of a torn letter covered with curious writing that was certainly not English; the very characters were different. Picking it up, he looked at it carefully. Yes, they were the same funny characters as those on many of the letters that had been found in the possession of the German spies he had caught last autumn. “A German letter!” he said, “in one of our sacks! Of course ... Philip said they had got a sack from old Bulky. This is a clue; or rather it will be a strong piece of evidence if I can find the whole letter.” Eagerly he bent down and began searching about in the pile of waste paper. But it was at that moment that he heard the outer gate click and steps coming along the path. Glancing through the window, he saw to his dismay that it was the very last person in the world he wanted to see just then. It was Mr. Bulky!