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.
"Got the key ?" Fido asked.
"Do you suppose I'd come away without it ?" "Pull a little on your left.

I can just make out the shed.

There isn't,--yes there is, there's just one light in the town." "That's Algernon Kirkendall studying his algebra," said Nick.
"It's just in line with the shed.

Row straight for the light and we'll hit the shore just right.