COPYRIGHT 1940, 1931 BY BOOKS, INC.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

I. Battle-Royal 7

II. Sherlock on the Trail 16

III. The Midnight Man 27

IV. The Arm 35

V. In the Name of the Law 44

VI. Braves in Council 55

VII. News and More News 65

VIII. The Disappearing Act 75

IX. Off for Pebble Beach 87

X. The Man in Blue Again 96

XI. The Lair of the Enemy 104

XII. A Daring Resolve 112

XIII. The Trunk Room 122

XIV. So Long, Lenape! 131

XV. Four in the Forest 141

XVI. Hare and Hounds 152

XVII. Jerry Gets a Ride 162

XVIII. The Gypsy Van 174

XIX. Shots on the Highway 183

XX. The Last Trap 193

XXI. The Secret of the Lodge 203

XXII. Brotherly Love 214

THE MYSTERY AT CAMP LENAPE

CHAPTER I
BATTLE-ROYAL

The Utway twins were at it again.

“You are, too!” said Jake.

“You’re another!” said Jerry.

“And you’re his brother!” said Jake.

It was “quiet hour” in Camp Lenape. The peace of Sunday afternoon hung above the rows of white tents on the hillside above the placid lake. In Tent Ten, however, the quiet was broken by a sudden uproar.

Six wide-awake lads perched on upper bunks, grinning and nudging each other. All eyes were turned on two bronze-haired, blue-eyed, sun-browned boys who faced each other in the center of the tent.

As they stood thus, it seemed as if there was only one boy, looking at himself in a large mirror; for the Utway twins were so much alike that others often wondered how one of them knew whether he was himself, or his brother—whether Jerry did not sometimes wake in the morning and think for a moment that he might possibly be Jake. The resemblance was heightened by the fact that both wore identical outfits—the basketball shorts and green-and-white jersey that served as the camp uniform.

However, while Jerry wore a tennis sneaker on each foot, Jake wore only one. The other shoe he brandished in an upraised arm with a threatening air.

“That’s talking,” put in “wild Willie” Sanders, from his perch above the two brothers. “You tell him, Jake!”

Jake turned on the speaker. “No noise from the nickel seats!” he warned. “This is our business—no butting in. Now, Jerry, take back what you said.”

“Well, take back what you said!” responded Jerry with some spirit. “And quit aiming that shoe at me! Put it down!”

“Keep off!”

The band of onlookers, now reinforced by the grinning faces of many inmates of neighboring tents, chuckled with delight. It looked as if there was going to be a fight at last. And the watchers knew from past experience that if the Utway twins got to scrapping again, the resulting action would do much to brighten up a dull Sunday afternoon. Therefore they waited happily for the first gong of the coming battle.

It looked as though Jerry meant business. With a swift rush he attempted to snatch the menacing shoe from his brother’s hand. Jake neatly dodged, and swung the improvised weapon in a dangerous arc. His fingers slipped on the smooth rubber of the sole, and the shoe hurled itself with some force at Jerry’s chest.

Jerry grunted as the flying sneaker took him in the midriff. He was not hurt, but he was mad. He had forgotten completely what the original quarrel was about; he knew that the shoe had been flung by accident, but didn’t care; all he thought of was to “get even” with Jake. He snatched the nearest thing at hand, which happened to be a canteen belonging to little Pete Lister, and flung it wildly at his brother.

Jake dodged again, and returned this fire with an unwieldy missile that proved to be Fat Crampton’s generously-built raincoat. This went wild of the mark, and he ducked a whizzing flashlight while at the same time reaching about for more ammunition. His hand touched “Sherlock” Jones’s camera-case, and he was about to aim this at Jerry’s head when he was taken full in the face with a canvas pillow, followed by a sweater and a Boy Scout Handbook.

“Hey!” cried Jones, jumping down from his bunk in alarm, now that his treasured possession was in danger, “that’s my camera-case you got!”

The contested object sailed past his ear and met its mark on Jerry’s leg. By this time Jerry was in no frame of mind to distinguish friend from enemy. He was seeing red, and the sight of young Jones dashing toward him to regain his property raised his temper to the boiling point. He reached out and greeted the oncoming boy with the contents of a handy water-bucket.

The bucket was half full, sufficient to make a drenching torrent which reduced the hapless Jones to a sopping state. His cry of rage filled the tent. Wild Willie Sanders came to his rescue, and together they advanced on Jerry, who was now armed with a loose tent-peg swinging on the end of its rope.

Jake had taken advantage of his momentary freedom from attack to gather together a goodly pile of ammunition—shoes, tennis rackets, pinecones, pillows, and an empty wasp’s nest which Lefkowitz had collected as a specimen. Chink Towner had entrenched himself on the top of a bunk, from which fortified position he was able now and then to swipe the tumbling combatants over the head with a pillow. Little Peter Lister managed to give Fat Crampton a timely shove which sent him rolling between the legs of his battling tent-mates.

Objects of all sorts, from baseball bats to cakes of soap, flew through the air and landed in the low bushes outside the tent. Battle-cries and shouts of the wounded rent the calm Sunday afternoon air.

The fight was no longer a private contest. The action had become general. A whirling shoe had landed on “Kipper” Dabney, aide of Tent Nine next door, and he had immediately led his cohorts in a vengeful sally against their warlike neighbors. Somebody had refilled the empty water-pail and was methodically doing his bit to make sure that not one of the combatants was left undrenched. A scouting party from Tent Five had raced downhill and were swiftly pulling the blankets from every bunk and tossing them into the huckleberry bushes. Tent Ten was a battleground of whirling arms, tumbling bodies, and flying weapons, whereon no one knew his friend, and every boy fought for himself.

“Stop!”

A shrill voice of command cut through the tumult. Unseen by the rioters, a short, erect man in scoutmaster’s uniform had appeared in their midst.

“Stop this at once! Put those things down! Attention!”

A boy on the outskirts of the group whistled in surprise. “Chickie! It’s Mr. Colby!” He dodged behind a tree and disappeared. Silently the boys from other tents faded from the scene, trying to look innocent and peaceful. In ten seconds the members of Tent Ten were left alone amid the ruins, under the stern gaze of Mr. Colby.

“Attention! Line up!”

Eight boys guiltily straightened, heels together.

“You, Utway, drop that baseball bat! Now, what’s the meaning of this?”

The councilor’s keen eyes flashed from one face to the next. The sudden uproar had brought him running from his place at the leaders’ meeting on the porch of the lodge. As officer of the day, it was his duty to take charge of the camp program, inspect the tents, and assign merit points for the conduct of each tent-group. He took his duties most seriously; a short period of service in the National Guard had given him a mighty respect for military discipline; and his strictness at all times was well-known at Lenape.

“Men, you are a disgrace!” he snapped. A few feathers from a ripped pillow sifted down and settled upon the brim of his hat, but not a boy dared to smile. “A disgrace! Now, who’s responsible for this?”

His searching eye caught sight of the twins, standing together at one end of the line. He well knew the reputation these husky brothers had for unladylike conduct, and twice before had found it necessary to separate them from each other’s grasp after sudden tussles. His lips tightened as he stopped before Jerry, whose relinquished baseball bat lay across his feet.

“You again, eh? Fighting with your brother, were you, Jake? Or Jerry, whichever you are?”

“Well, you see——”

“Never mind accusing anybody else! You’ll have to learn that camp is no place for continual bickering! Look at this tent! You’ve made hay of the whole place. I’ll make it my job to see that Tent Ten gets the booby can for this——” The councilor’s words were broken off short, and he fell back, clapping his hands to his head.

He had been standing directly under the front tent pole, and the oil lantern hanging there, which had somehow escaped being brought into the fray, had suddenly descended from its nail at the top of the pole and struck him full on the crown. The blow had been partly dulled by his stiff hat, but he was smarting with anger. His bristling gaze fell on the flushed face of Jake Utway, who stood beside the pole with defiance in his eyes.

“You—you did that, Utway! Don’t deny it!”

Jake did not deny it. He had taken this means of defending his brother from the full brunt of the guilt for the battle-royal.

“Well, why don’t you stop picking on Jerry? He wasn’t the only one to blame! All of us did some.”

“You—you——Both you boys are incorrigible! Now, listen! You two must put this tent in order at once—pick up everything, make all the beds, put everything in its place! If this is not done, I shall recommend that you serve ten hours apiece on the chain gang. No discipline—no discipline——”

Still rubbing his injured brow tenderly, the enraged scoutmaster rushed from the tent, not daring to trust his temper further.

The group relaxed. “Guess that’ll fix you guys for soaking me with all that water,” muttered Sherlock Jones. “Serves you right.”

“Shut up,” said Jerry rudely. “Say, Jake, thanks. He sure did look sad when that lantern bopped him! I knew right away you did it on purpose.”

“Aw, he was picking on you,” answered Jake. “That’s all right. He got even with us, though. It’s not going to be an easy job, cleaning up this mess. Let’s get busy. Come on, pick up those blankets.”

“You’re no cripple—pick ’em up yourself!”

“Pick ’em up, you lazy loafer!”

“Who’s a loafer?”

“You are!”

“You’re another!”

“And you’re his brother!”

The Utway twins were at it again.

CHAPTER II
SHERLOCK ON THE TRAIL

Sherlock Jones muttered vengefully to himself as he slowly stripped and removed his sopping clothes after the battle. Moodily he donned a dry outfit, pulled a sweater over his head, and stalked from the littered tent.

Between two pine trees a few yards away, a rustic bench had been built. Sherlock sat down, drew a thin book from his pocket, and began to read. He had barely cast his eye down one page when a shadow fell on his arm, and he looked up to see Wild Willie Sanders surveying him curiously.

“What’s bitin’ you?” asked Wild Willie. “You look mad as a wet hen.”

Sherlock scowled. “Something terrible’s going to happen around this camp!” he said with a profound air of secrecy.

The other boy laughed scornfully. “Huh! That’s what you’re always saying! Always acting mysterious, as if you thought somebody was going to commit a murder any minute! Reading that book again, too, I see! What’s the name of it?”

With a swift movement, he jerked the thin volume from Sherlock’s hand, and read the title. “‘How to Be a Detective in 10 Lessons, by the Fireside Correspondence School.’ Say, what makes you think you’re a natural-born sleuth, anyway?”

Sherlock peered up pleadingly, blinking his pale blue eyes behind the large, window-like lenses of a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that rested on his long, inquisitive nose. “Here, give me that, Wild Willie! Give me back that book!”

“All right, Mr. Detective.” The boy tossed the book down, and grunted. “Say, you better quit shadowing Chink Towner all over the place. He’s getting mad about it, and told me he’d swat you one if you didn’t stop following him.”

Again Sherlock gave him a solemn glance. “Shh! I got information that he’s a smuggler!”

“A smuggler? What do you mean?”

“Well, anyway, he’s probably a Chinese spy in disguise.”

Wild Willie laughed derisively. “Say, I’ve known Chink Towner all my life, and he’s no more a smuggler than the Chief is! Why he’s not even a Chinaman—we just call him Chink because he kind of looks that way. You better get these nutty ideas out of your head before you get hurt. It’s just like that time you told me that Leggy and all the other colored fellows in the kitchen were counterfeiters.”

Sherlock winced. This affair was another of his failures to discover a secret threat of Crime hanging over the heads of his fellow campers. One evening soon after the camp season had started, he had been listening outside the shack where these dusky young men lived, back of the ice-house, and had heard the whirr of machinery and the proud voice of Leggy, assistant cook, remarking: “Yas suh, dis here ma-sheen is sure goin’ to make lots o’ money for us all!” His hope of fame as a great detective was blasted next day in mess-hall, however, when that same Leggy announced that he had “brought a sewing-machine to camp with him and was prepared, for a nominal sum of money, to mend rips and tears in the campers’ clothing.”

“Never mind about that,” he said desperately. “People around this camp are going to be pretty glad they’ve got a live-wire detective on the job. Pretty soon you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

“Why? What’s going to happen?”

“Some people around here will bear watching, that’s all!” Sherlock cast a meaning glance in the direction of Tent Ten, where the twins had set about clearing up the devastated tent and making up the bunks into a semblance of orderliness.

Wild Willie stared in unbelief, and again broke into a laugh. “You mean the Utway brothers? Say, if you take my advice, you’ll keep away from those two! Everybody knows they scrap with each other now and then, but if you try to tackle one of them, you’ll have both of them coming down on your neck! What have you got against them?”

“Well,” said Sherlock slowly, “Jake threw around my good camera-case, and Jerry dumped a whole bucket of water on me——”

“That’s no crime, is it? What’s mysterious about that?”

“You’ll see. Look at what they did to Mr. Colby—Jake knocked down a lantern on him, on purpose, and I bet they’d like to do worse, if they could. And he’s a councilor!”

“You’re a born chump,” remarked his tent-mate hopelessly. “No use trying to argue with you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes Junior. Some day, something terrible is going to happen around camp, and then you’ll be a hero and discover the mystery. Oh, yes!” Again came that scornful laugh. “Listen, there goes the bugle sounding Recall. Sax McNulty promised to tell some stories before swim, up at the big cherry tree. Are you coming, or are you going to read your old book all day?”

“You go ahead. I’m all right.” Sherlock again picked up his precious book, but he did not read far. As soon as Wild Willie was out of sight, he slipped the book into his pocket. He was convinced that the Utway twins were a pair of villains. If he could catch them in some dark act, and unmask them as dire disturbers of the peace of Camp Lenape——

Already a plan had formed in his mind. He would hide near them, watch their movements, and if possible discover them in some suspicious act.

The campus between the rows of tents was deserted now. Again silence hovered over Camp Lenape, scene of many a summer adventure, some of which have been written down elsewhere. The spreading lodge-building, perched on the hillside midway between the mountain range and the waters of Lake Lenape, was deserted. In the shadow by the kitchen door, Sherlock could see Ellick, the jovial, chocolate-colored chef, sprawled on the ground beside his three coffee-colored assistants, resting after their labors of preparing the midday meal of camp fare. The waiting lad could picture in his mind the scene under the wild-cherry tree in the baseball field beyond the lodge, where a dozen grown men, the councilors, sat, surrounded by the hundred lively boy campers who each season came to live under canvas in the woods and to enjoy the delights of this outdoor paradise. “Sax” McNulty, the comical leader who was in charge of camp stunts, would be relating some stirring tale. All the other councilors would be there—Wally Rawn, the swimmer; Lieutenant Eames of West Point fame; Mr. Colby; Happy Face Frayne, the associate director; and the rest. And somewhere among the group of listening boys would be the Chief himself, the kindly director who knew all things.

Among the crowd, Sherlock’s absence would not be noticed. He rose swiftly, and managed to creep unseen into a clump of low bushes about fifty yards below Tent Ten. From this vantage-point he was able to overlook the activity of the two brothers, who labored moodily at their task in the hot sun.

It was no easy thing to discover all the missing objects which the energetic raiders from other tents had thrown into the surrounding shrubbery, and to arrange everything inside in apple-pie order for a later inspection; and the better part of an hour passed before Jake and Jerry sat on a newly-made bunk and rested from their labors.

Sherlock, who had patiently squatted within the depths of a distant huckleberry patch all the while, now saw his chance to creep undiscovered to the space under the flooring of the tent, where he could listen and perhaps overhear some incriminating words. Expertly he wormed his way to this hiding-place, behind the unsuspecting backs of the brothers, in time to catch the end of Jake’s last remark.

“—you’re right, Jerry. We sure ought to do something. Everybody was in on the scrap, and Colby didn’t have any right to put all this work on us.”

“He’s too strict, with all his talk about discipline,” responded Jerry somberly. “From now on he’s going to be after us, especially when you pushed the tent-pole and brought that lantern down on his dome; so we might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”

“That’s the stuff! What’ll we do to him?”

Sherlock, below them, stifled a gasp of horror. Here was mutiny, rank rebellion against the authority of a councilor of Lenape, a grown man and a scoutmaster! His jaw gaped as he listened.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Jerry slowly. “I bet old Colby could be scared out of his skin, even if he was a soldier once. You know that big bull-frog Spaghetti Megaro caught the other day? I know where he keeps it down in my tent. Let’s get it, and to-night, about twelve o’clock when everybody’s asleep, we’ll slide down to Colby’s tent and chuck old Mr. Frog into his bed! Talk about scared! Say, I’ll bet Old Discipline will let out a yelp you can hear a mile!”

“Boy, I can just hear it now!” agreed Jake, bursting into a laugh. “But how are we going to stay awake that long? Twelve o’clock’s pretty late.”

“I’ll fix that. I can wake up whenever I want to, you know. We can run a long string across from my tent over here. Tie one end to your foot before you go to sleep. When I wake up I’ll give it a pull and wake you up, then get the frog, and meet you here. Then we’ll go down to Fifteen and give Mr. Discipline the scare of his life!”

“All set. I got a ball of cord in my locker we can use. Come on, Jerry—we got time enough before swim to listen in on one of Sax McNulty’s stories. Let’s go!”

The full, rich notes of Taps rolled over the pines of Lenape and echoed across the lake. Fat Crampton doused the Tent Ten lantern and climbed heavily into his creaking bunk.

“Good night, campers!” drawled the voice of Jim Avery, the lanky councilor. Sleepy voices answered from the darkness. There was a slight rustling from the direction of Jake Utway’s bunk. Sherlock Jones cocked an ear. He knew that Jake, following the plan he had overheard that afternoon, was attaching to his foot the cord which the twins had laid down after nightfall to connect Tent Ten with Jerry’s bunk in Tent Eight down the line. This method of communication was necessary because the Chief in his wisdom made it a point to separate the two devoted brothers into different tent-groups when the changes in tent assignments were made at the end of each two-week period of camp. Therefore Jake was given a place with Mr. Avery, while Jerry was nominally under the guardianship of Dr. Cannon in Tent Eight.

Sherlock smiled with satisfaction in the darkness. He, too, had a score to pay off, and he would see that the brothers who had misused him would not get off lightly. His preparations were made. Cautiously he felt under his bunk to make sure that all the equipment he needed was at hand.

A few stars sparkled down through the softly-swaying pine branches. Nothing was heard in the tent now save the heavy breathing of the weary sleepers, led by Fat Crampton’s rumbling bass snore. Far up the mountain behind camp a dog barked somewhere. The travelling spot of a flashlight came up the path as the Chief passed by noiselessly on his nightly round. Sherlock caught himself nodding—tried to jerk himself into wakefulness—nodded again....

He woke with a start. A dim bulk of shadow moved against the dull starlight; Jake Utway was dressing hastily in the dark. He waited until Jake had slipped on his tennis shoes and had noiselessly tiptoed down the steps. A light footfall from the path told him that Jerry was joining the party. “Got the frog?” he heard Jake whisper; the forms of the two brothers melted into the dark in the direction of Tent Fifteen.

Sherlock waited no longer. He sprang from his blankets, and stripped off his pajamas. He had, unseen by his tent-mates, slipped into bed fully dressed beneath his nightwear. It was the work of a few instants to slide his feet into a pair of moccasins and drop over the edge of the tent floor. Clutched under one arm he carried his camera, his most prized possession. In the other hand he bore a metal pan with a short handle, and a package labeled “flashlight powder.”

CHAPTER III
THE MIDNIGHT MAN

Through the gloom the Utway twins felt their way down the hill, trusting to the touch of their feet to keep them on the path that ran through the pines on the northern edge of the campus. Jerry carried under his sweater the bulging form of the big frog, whose long legs jerked fitfully.

Jake grabbed his brother’s arm. “Hark!” he whispered. “I thought I heard something over to the right—there in the bushes!” They listened.

“You must be dreaming still! I don’t hear anything. Come on! You aren’t scared, are you?”

“Aw, say! Let’s hurry up, though. We don’t want to get caught. You still got Alexander good and tight?”

Jerry resisted a particularly violent kick from Alexander, the frog, and again moved forward. They were now close to the dull patch of canvas that marked Tent Fifteen, the tent furthest away from the lodge. The twins had marked beforehand the lower bunk occupied by Mr. Colby, which was on the far side. With the greatest caution, the twins circled through the underbrush and crept beneath the moorings of the tent-ropes. The councilor’s bunk was now at hand. It was their aim to slip Alexander beneath the blankets, and retreat into the cover of the pines, there to await the startled yell that would tell them Mr. Colby had discovered his slippery bedfellow.

Jake put his mouth close to Jerry’s ear. “Say, I know I heard something—there, right back of the tent! Somebody must be following us!”

“Well, what of it? They can’t see us in the dark. All the more reason to hurry. Ready?” He fished Alexander forth. “Quick, now—lift up the covers and I’ll chuck him in——” He got no further.

Boom! A thunderous explosion came from a few feet away, and a brilliant flare lit the scene like a flash of lightning.

With daylight clearness, the startled raiders could see every feature of their surroundings, standing out from the night. It was like a stage play. The inside of Tent Fifteen was lit with a blinding radiance. In a cleared space at the open rear of the tent, Sherlock Jones stood, a flaming flashlight-pan held high over his head with one hand, his other hand clicking the shutter of the camera, placed on a tripod and aimed straight at the bunk over which bent the white faces of the Utway twins. In the darkness, Sherlock had poured more powder into the pan than would have been necessary to light the scene of action, and the resulting explosion had been greater than he was prepared for.

Jerry jumped backward, for in the momentary light from the pan he had seen Mr. Colby’s eyes open and shut again, blinded by the dazzling glare. The boy’s backward movement caused him to bump his head heavily against the mooring-pole, and he saw more stars than those that shone in the July heavens. Alexander dropped from his nerveless hand.

Jake Utway, however, was the most startled of all those whose figures stood out in that brief second of brightness. He could not hold in the cry that came to his lips. Not six inches away from his was a face—the face of a man, wild, desperate, knotted with fear!

For some precious seconds he was too paralyzed to move. The flare had died down, but in his mind’s eye still stood forth, every feature cut clear in his memory, the face of the stranger. That twisted visage, he was sure, belonged to no one of the leaders of Lenape, nor any of the neighboring farmers that he knew. The head was completely bald, the eyes staring from their sockets, clenched teeth glittering between pale, drawn lips. He knew that never, as long as he lived, could he forget that frozen mask of terror.

It seemed ages before he could control his body enough to move. Stumbling blindly beneath the mooring-pole, he made for the shelter of the trees. Behind him came the shrill challenge of Mr. Colby: “Halt! Who goes there? What is it?”

Jake ran. He had gone about twenty yards when he tripped over a clump of brush, fell forward perilously, crashed into the trunk of a tree. He lay stunned where he fell. Dancing sparks flickered before his eyes; a slow pain grew in the left side of his face, which had smashed against the rough bark of a pine.

From a few yards away came the crash of a struggling body, tearing its way through the bushes. “Is that you, Jerry?” he called hoarsely, finding his voice and struggling to a sitting position. There was no answer, but the thrashing sound continued. What was it?

The unknown thing was almost upon him now. His whole face stinging with the recent blow, he tried to flounder to his feet. His upraised arm came into contact with flesh! Some heavy body fell upon his, a writhing mass of humanity. His groping hand clutched a bony arm clothed in some rough, thin material. At least his unknown attacker was human! Gritting his teeth, Jake Utway pulled himself together and grappled with his strange antagonist.

The battle was brief. The enemy seemed more bent upon escaping from Jake’s clutch than remaining to wrestle. It was a question which of the two was the more frightened. Jerry found and clung to a flailing leg until a sudden kick sent him sprawling again. The branches of the undergrowth crackled as the panic-stricken attacker fought his way free.

Painfully Jake scrambled to his feet. With his body scratched by the bushes and bruised in a dozen places, and his face throbbing from its blow against the tree, he now thought of nothing but regaining his tent undiscovered. Jerry must already have made his way back to his own tent. Jake hoped that Mr. Avery was not among those hurrying forms that passed near him in the dark, hastening toward the scene of commotion; but there was a chance that he had not been disturbed, as the lanky councilor was known throughout the camp as a sound sleeper who had to fight his way to wakefulness at Reveille. Jake’s knowledge of the lay of the land now stood him in good stead, and he quickly found the path and scurried toward Tent Ten, stripping off his shirt and sweater as he went. He breathed a sigh of relief as he came to the step of his own tent. Nothing seemed out of the way. His peering eyes made sure that Mr. Avery had not stirred. With shaking fingers Jake undressed fully, scrambled into his pajamas, and got into the rumpled blankets a fraction of a second before he heard steps at the tent door.

The Chief’s low voice floated through the night. “Taking pictures, were you? Well, Jones, if I didn’t know that you were a bit cuckoo, I might wonder what you were up to. As it is——”

“But, Ch-Chief!” Sherlock whimpered. “If you knew what I was taking a picture of, you’d——”

“Shh! Don’t wake up the whole camp!” came the command. “If you have any explanation to make, you can save it until morning. Now, not another word. You’ve made enough racket for one night!”

Jake could not help grinning beneath the covers. Evidently Sherlock, impeded with his camera and other apparatus, had not made his getaway in time. What could the amateur detective have been doing there at that hour? It must have been he whom they heard following them on their expedition. Well, time enough to worry in the morning! He listened sleepily as Sherlock stowed away his outfit, not dreaming that the camera contained an exposed film which might be a highly incriminating record of their midnight misdoings.

Sherlock, however, made sure that his precious camera was carefully placed in his locker. He was not minded to lose his sole evidence that he had risked all to obtain proof of the raid. He cast a grim glance toward Jake’s outstretched form as he donned his pajamas for the second time that night. Little did the brothers reck that Sherlock Jones, the detective, had not failed!

Sherlock wakened in the morning a few minutes before Reveille, and glanced across the tent to see if the adventure of the night had left any marks upon his mutinous tent-mate. It had. The most blundering detective could not have failed to note the clue which a tree-trunk had left on the face of Jake Utway. His left eye was ringed about with an inflamed patch of black-and-blue bruises—the most gorgeous “shiner” Sherlock had seen in some time. As he looked, Jake opened the uninjured eye and glanced achingly about him. His gaze fell on the grinning Jones, sitting upright in his bunk.

“How are all the frogs this morning?” Sherlock greeted him. “Say, you ought to ask Ellick for a chunk of beefsteak to drape over that eye of yours. In a couple days you’re going to have a bee-yootiful sunset on your face. It’s already started to turn all colors of the rainbow.”

Jake felt his eye tenderly. “There was some commotion in the night, and I got up and must have walked into something,” he said, with due regard for the truth. “You better shut up,” he added belligerently, “if you don’t want to carry around one just like it.”

Sherlock said nothing, but smiled to himself. He had already decided to refer to his latest case under the resounding title of “The Clue of the Black-and-Blue Eyebrow.”

CHAPTER IV
THE ARM

Sherlock’s opportunity to learn the results of his night’s work did not come until the middle of the morning. The Lenape program gave no freedom for detective labors until the period after squad-work had been completed. Tent Ten had been assigned to policing the lodge, and as Sherlock bent over his broom he cast many a dark glance at the busy Utway brothers, fretting until the moment came when he would be able to take his exposed film to the dark-room and discover the results of his snapshotting expedition. At last Assembly sounded, and he headed for his tent, carefully removed the film, and made his way to the small dark-room that had been built under the lodge for the convenience of camper photographers.

As he shut the door, turned on the red electric bulb, and began laying out hypo and the rest of the developing kit, he heard voices from the kitchen directly overhead. Ellick was superintending the preparations for lunch, and from his tone it was evident that his temper was not as genial and kindly as usual. Ellick, it would seem, had a grievance.

“Ah don’t no-how likes to think of a thief about de camp, Leggy,” he complained. “Ah gives de boys and de councilors all dey can eat. Whaffor dey want to come stealin’ around in de night to get bread and such?”

Sherlock pricked up his ears. Here was another case for a bright detective! Stealing from the kitchen! He awaited Leggy’s reply.

“Don’t know, Chef!” the assistant answered. “You-all figure, maybe dey gets hongry in de night, and a chunk o’ bread look mighty nice.”

“Don’t talk foolishment! Whaffor dey have to bust de lock on de pantry window jest ’cause dey gets a cravin’ for a snack? And what about de ax? Suppose dey wakes in de middle o’ de night and gets a cravin’ to chop down a few trees? Mah best hand-ax, stole right off de woodpile! No suh, I don’t like to think any Lenape fellow goes about bustin’ into windows and swipin’ dangerous wood-axes when folks is sleepin’.”

“How much grub did dey-all take, Chef?” came a question in the voice of Howard Chisel, the squat, bow-legged, ebony-faced lad who presided over dishwashing operations. “Jest bread?”

“No. More’n dat. Got off wid a couple cans o’ truck, and maybe some potatuhs. Ah declare, if Ah don’t tell de Chief about dis fust thing. Hookin’ a doughnut now and den is jest boy-tricks. Bustin’ windows and stealin’ good sharp axes is somethin’ else again!”

The listening boy made a note to ask Ellick for further details of this latest crime. At present, he was too busy to lend his services in another case. His hand shook slightly as he dipped the film in the developing baths, watched with eyes glittering behind their large lenses as the smoky negative cleared into masses of dark and light in the bottom of the tray. Most of the surface was taken up with a black patch that was in all likelihood the canvas of Tent Fifteen, but he would have to make a clear print of the scene before the details would show beyond question. He hung the fixed negative to dry and went out into the sunshine to wait impatiently until a proof could be taken.

Sherlock kicked his feet against a rock and thought over all the information he had gathered about the Utway affair. He hoped that the print he was making would show without question the full villainy of the twins. If it did not, it would leave him in a predicament. Mr. Colby had not seen either of the Utway twins, who had made their ways back to their bunks without capture. Yes; the picture must be a good one. Sherlock rose and went back into the dark-room.

With all the skill and care of which he was master, Sherlock Jones toiled over the developing of the first print of the raiding scene. Eagerly he bent over the developing bath as dark edges began to take shape on the bit of white paper. Slowly, slowly, the details melted into being, seeming to spring from the waters above the print. Now! The boy switched the print into the fixing tray, turned on the white light, and scrutinized his handiwork.

One glance, and he was ready to cry out with disappointment. He bit his lip. The explosion of the too-generous quantity of flashlight powder had startled him, and in his haste, unsure of his hearings in the darkness, he had twisted the camera on its tripod so that none of the action was visible. Diagonally across the picture ran the rear flap of the tent. The head and pillow of Mr. Colby showed with clearness, but the forms of the Utway twins and Alexander the frog were cut off by the expanse of the tent-fly. All that the picture revealed was a peaceful night-scene in one corner of Tent Fifteen—nothing more.

Had Sherlock not reminded himself that a good detective never gives way to emotion or shows in his features the state of his feelings, he might have stamped up and down the dark-room, raving at his failure. As it was, he controlled his disappointment as best he could, and patiently went over the picture a second time, to make sure that no detail had escaped his notice.

He was rewarded. In the upper corner of the print was something which at first glance he had not seen. It appeared to be an arm, the hand gripping one of the tent-ropes, the upper part near the body cut off by the edge of the negative. With growing excitement, Sherlock drew from his pocket the small magnifying lens he carried with him at all times. Taking the wet print into the outdoor sunshine, he focussed his glass on the mysterious detail. It was an arm—and the lens showed plainly a mark by which a detective could distinguish this arm from all other arms in the vicinity. Upon the fleshy part of the under forearm was tattooed the sketchy design of an American eagle with outstretched wings.