Undoubtedly the black boat had turned back as evening set in, and it must have been some one connected with the party, whom they had seen waving that light from the shore.
"Good evening!" said Allan, pleasantly, as the three men ranged up close by and evidently looked them over; "we've surrendered, you remember. Now, what are you going to do with six Boy Scouts off for a vacation trip on the lake?"
At that the big man turned to his companions, and laughed. No doubt they felt considerably disappointed, because they had somehow had high hopes of making an important capture; but after the first keen chagrin had passed they could enjoy a joke at their own expense.
"You'll have to excuse our bothering you, boys," said he of the bass voice; "but you see we made a mistake. We're revenue officers, looking for a notorious smuggler named Cranston, who operates around this section. We had positive information that he meant to cross over from Canada in a boat that answered the description of yours to a fraction; and as it's the habit of these smugglers to adopt all sorts of disguises, from honest, hard-working fishermen, to anything else that suits their fancy, we guessed they'd taken to wearing khaki to make us believe they were a party of the militia out for a cruise."
"And so we turned back, and planned this nice little surprise, when we saw that you had come in here," remarked a second man, still chuckling.
"Who are you, anyway, boys?" asked the third, who seemed to have more curiosity than his comrades, though his next words explained the reason for this; "because I've got two sturdy scouts, in my house, and they've become so much brighter lads since they joined the patrol that I want to tell you I'm interested in the movement wherever I run across it. And when I tell them about this blunder of ours I'd like to mention names, you know."
"Why, we belong to the Silver Fox Patrol of Cranford Troop of Boys Scouts," remarked Allan, promptly; "this is our assistant scout-master, Thad Brewster, who happens to be the pilot of the trip because Dr. Philander Hobbs, our real leader, had to hurry back home on business; but we didn't worry a bit when that happened, because, you see, Thad is capable of turning the trick; he knows more in a minute about everything in the woods than Dr. Hobbs could learn in ten years."
"Well, well, tell me about that, will you?" exclaimed the man, with some little excitement; "and which of you might be Allan Hollister—I reckon you're that party right now, youngster; and this stout scout here, surely he must be the Bumpus who got into so many bad holes, and yet always managed to crawl out again? Yes, I'm right about that; and let's see, which one might be Giraffe—no need to ask that, when I look around me. Then there was, another they called Step Hen, didn't they, not to mention Davy Jones, Bob White and Smithy? Oh, I know you all, and I want to shake hands with each and every one of you. Say, won't my kids go crazy when they hear that I've actually met up with that lively bunch of scouts."
"W-w-what's all this mean, mister?" asked Bumpus, actually trembling, not with fear any longer, but actual delight to hear himself mentioned in this familiar way by a stranger.
"Well, I'll have to confess that I've taken such a deep interest in what my boys are doing," continued the revenue officer, "that I even read every book they brought into the house; and that's how I came to know about the doings of the Silver Fox Patrol, and who the eight lads were constituting that branch of the scouts. Give me your hand, Mr. Scout-master; I'm proud to know you, sure I am; and I hope you'll send a written word back home to the two ten-year old twins, who know all about what you fellows have been doing in the Blue Ridge, up in Maine, and even as far away as the Rocky Mountains."