“Hold up!” called out Thad.
Of course, as the scout-master, his word had to be recognized as law by the members of Cranford Troop. Several of the boys manifested signs of disappointment, and impulsive Giraffe seemed to be the chief offender.
As a rule they were not averse to giving vent to their feelings; for besides being Boy Scouts, they had long been school chums.
“Oh! that’s too bad, now, Thad,” Giraffe remarked, dejectedly; “you didn’t want us to chase after that fellow. Four of us ought to’ve been able to beat him in a furious dash; and how d’we know but what it isn’t the very man we’ve come all the way from Cranford to see?”
“It’s too late now, anyway!” observed Bumpus.
“Yes, he’s disappearing among the shadows yonder,” said Davy, who had sharp eyesight; “and I saw him turn to look back at us just when he was passing through that bar of sunlight that crosses the water.”
“Did you think he was a negro, or a white man, Davy?” asked Thad, quietly.
“Well, to tell you the truth, Thad, I guess now he was a coon, all right. He didn’t have any hat on, and his hair seemed woolly enough,” Davy admitted, frankly.
“I thought as much all along,” Thad told them, “and that was one of the reasons I wouldn’t give the word to pursue him. There were plenty of others, though.”
“Name a few, Mr. Scout-master,” requested Giraffe, still unconvinced.