The sleeping propensity of a top is nothing to the way Harry and Gordon slumbered. You cannot sleep such sleep indoors. You need the starry sky, the dark surrounding trees, the lullaby of cricket and locust, the low, musical rustle of leaves. Then you can sleep, as Gordon put it, “till the cows come home.” It must have been the custom for the cows in that vicinity to come home at seven A. M., for at that hour the boys awoke, and Harry soon had water boiling for the coffee. Of course, every one’s way of making coffee is by far the best way. The scout way is to bring your water to a boil first, then drop your coffee in and stir like the mischief.
At eight-thirty they had every single thing in their bags and were on their way down the northern slope of the mountain. You would not have known that any one had camped at the spot except for the ashes of the fire and the beaver’s head scratched on a rock.
They followed a winding, woodland path, scarcely visible in places. “What’s this?” asked Gordon, picking up a small, flat, triangular stone which his alert eyes had discovered. It proved to be an Indian arrow-head about an inch and a half long and nearly an inch wide at one end, tapering to a blunt point at the other. Harry showed his companion how, wedged into the split end of a stick and bound firmly, it constituted the old-time arrow of the bloody Mohawk tribe, whose savage warwhoops had no doubt once been heard along this obscure mountain path.
Gordon trudged along, kicking the earth in search of more of these murderous souvenirs. Although they searched carefully, they could find no more of them, but Harry came upon something which held a grewsome interest. At the base of an old oak tree where the earth was gray and powdery, he found the head of a tomahawk, eaten with rust and so encrusted with earth that he was able to break off the corners of it as if it had been made of plaster.
“I guess some poor chap met his end here,” Harry said soberly. “How would you like to be tied against that old tree and have a pack of savages throw these things at you?”
Gordon shuddered. “Do you suppose we’re on the old trail of the Mohawks, Harry?”
They were, indeed, treading the very ground over which that treacherous, bloodthirsty tribe had once carried their victims to torture and massacre. The thought of it had a quieting effect on Gordon, and they pressed their way along silently for a little while. Then he began humming:
“Though you didn’t or you wouldn’t,
Or you hadn’t or you couldn’t—”
“What’s that?” asked Harry.
“It’s the rest of that ‘Scout Song,’ Harry,” said Gordon, looking slyly sideways at his friend.
“You know what I told you, Kid! So help me—”
“Where do we come out?” Gordon interrupted.
“We’re headed for Crown Point Centre.”
Within an hour they came upon an open road and soon reached the village. It was not necessary to inquire for the owner of the little reticule, for on a wooden post outside the post-office was a notice written in a delicate hand on a half sheet of note paper:
LOST
Lady’s small hand-bag on road near Ticonderoga. Finder will confer great favor by kindly leaving with postmaster or returning to
Miss Antoinette Crosby,
Buck Mansion.
The word “great” was underlined several times, the word “kindly” was underlined twice, and the word “Miss” once.
“How far is it to Buck Mansion?” Harry asked, sauntering into the post-office.
The postmaster took a leisurely scrutiny of both boys. “What yer want to go up thar for?”
“Just to see some one. About how far is it?”
“Well, up here folks calls it three mile. City folks sometimes calls it five. One man that was up thar last summer calc’lated ’twas ten—said ’twas ten mile down and twenty mile back. He was a kind of a comic. But I can tell you right now they ain’t got a vacant room in the house.”
“Thank you,” said Harry. “Come on, Kid, we’ll go up there. We don’t need to get up Bulwagga Mountain before night.”
The distance to Buck Mansion was somewhere between one mile and ten, and the way led them through a fragrant country with houses at intervals along the road. To-day the distance was rather shorter than usual, or else the “scout pace” helped to make it seem so, for within an hour the boys reached a spacious white house, standing well back from the road. The lawn in front was covered with trees, where a number of hammocks hung. The fence skirting the road was broken in one place by a little summer-house containing a pump, and the half of a cocoanut shell hung near by way of a cup.
The position of this little well-house on the very edge of the public road afforded a tempting resting-place for tired wayfarers. Through the trees the boys could see that a deer’s head with spreading antlers hung over the doorway of the house. On the deep porch easy-chairs stood about, and in a frame swing to one side of the lawn a solitary figure sat writing. With this exception, not a soul was to be seen, which seemed odd in a spot that afforded such tempting facilities for idleness and repose.
“The deserted village,” said Harry, “but I guess this is the place, all right.”
Just then voices reached the boys through the trees:
“Shall I come to you?”
“No, try to go out.”
“She’s for that wicket.”
“She can’t get through.”
“I could send her down to you.”
“She plays before I do.”
“Well, I’m going to try to hit her anyway.” There was a second’s silence, then a whack, then “Missed! I told you so!”
“Come on over there,” said Harry.
On a smooth croquet ground an exciting war was going on. So intent was the group of ladies on the game that it was fully five minutes before any one spied the two scouts who leaned on the picket fence watching the play. Then one of them came toward the fence, her croquet mallet over her shoulder like a musket.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” said Harry, removing his hat, “but I didn’t like to come out on the ground. Is this Buck Mansion?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said, eying the boys curiously. “Is there some one you wish to see?”
“Is there a Miss Crosby here?”
“Indeed, there is. Nettie!” she called. “Here are two young gentlemen to see you.”
The figure in the swing rose quickly, spilling a writing tablet, a bag of candy, a fountain pen, and a magazine. As she straightened out her gown, which did not reach anywhere near the ground, the boys saw her to be a girl of not more than sixteen. They turned toward her.
“Miss Crosby?” Harry asked.
“Ye-es.”
“I think this little hand-bag is yours.”
“Oh, did you find it?”
“Yes, and I ought to have returned it sooner. I’m afraid I found it within an hour of the time you lost it, but better late than never.” He handed her the bag.
“Oh, thank you so very, very much. How did you find it?”
“Oh, I was just amusing myself noticing where your auto broke down.”
“It isn’t my auto.”
“And I picked up the bag on the stone wall.”
“Oh, thank you so very much for your trouble. The bag isn’t really worth anything, but—” She stopped short and looked at him suspiciously. “How did you know I was in an auto?”
“You just said so—or said as much,” smiled Harry.
“Yes, but you said it first.”
“Well,” said Harry, driven to it, “I happened to be along the road above Ticonderoga that night, and I saw the auto tracks in the moonlight and the ground all rumpled, and, oh, one thing and another, and then the bag on the wall. So I put it in my pocket to return it if I could find the owner.”
“You knew we broke down?”
“I thought so.”
“Oh, isn’t that just wonderful?”
“That’s nothing,” said Gordon. “He does things like that every day—he does them by deduction.”
“Deduction?”
“Yes—putting two and two together and making four.”
“That’s arithmetic,” said she.
“For instance, he thought this bag belonged to an elderly lady,” Gordon continued. “Of course, once in a great while he’s wrong,” he added quickly, rather regretting that he had selected this particular illustration of Harry’s talent for deducing.
“What made him think that? Why, it’s a pale blue—it matches—what made you think that?” she demanded of Harry.
“On account of the smelling salts,” said Gordon.
She opened the bag and closed it hastily. “I think you’re just horrid!” she said, looking at Harry. But she did not think he was horrid. Quite otherwise.
“You see,” explained Harry, “I had to open it to see if it contained a name or address.”
“Of course,” she said, “but it was just horrid to think I was an old maid! Do you always finds things out about people that way—what is it?”
“Deduction,” Gordon spoke up. “All scouts have to learn to decide things that way—it’s dandy fun.”
“I think it’s horrid. I suppose you’re just finding things out about me now. It makes me creepy! But you’re very kind,” she promptly added. “Tell me, honest and true, what are you deducing about me now?”
“Well,” said Harry, “I deduce that you’ve been writing a letter and underlining lots of words.”
She opened her mouth in astonishment. “You’re a perfect ghoul!” said she. “But I haven’t even asked you to sit down yet. Won’t you come over here and rest?” She led the way to the little well-house by the roadside, giving Gordon an opportunity to whisper to Harry:
“Now, you see, Harry—if you only had your uniform on! Did you see how she looked at me? It wasn’t I she cared about, Harry—it was the scout uniform. The scout suit catches them every time. I know more about those things than you do, Harry, because I’ve had more experience. Now you’ve learned a lesson.”
There was no chance for Harry to reply, for the young lady had reached the little shelter and ............