For the Scouts it was a long, boring day. With nothing to do, the hours dragged. All began to look forward to the morrow when they would take to the road once more. Twice Mr. Livingston and Ken drove to the telegraph office to inquire if an answer had been received to the wire. No word had come.
“Craig Warner may not exist except in Old Stony’s mind,” the Scout leader observed upon his return to camp at dusk, “or he may have moved to another community.”
“What’ll we do about the map?” Willie asked in a troubled voice.
“If there’s no reply by morning, I think the best thing to do is send it by registered mail,” the Scout adviser decided.
The warm night closed in somewhat cloudy. After supper, the Scouts sat for a while about the camp fire, cracking a few jokes and trying to shake themselves into a more cheerful mood. Old Stony’s death hung over them, and they could not seem to get him out of their thoughts. It was depressing to look at his darkened cabin.
“I’ll be glad to leave in the morning,” Jack said, preparing to turn in for the night. “Up at crack of dawn, you guys!”
The fire burned out, and the camp quieted. Jack, with the health of youth, slept soundly. Now and then he aroused briefly as cars drove into the motel section of the parking lot, but quickly he dozed off again.
Then suddenly he was awake once more. For a second, he could not imagine what had aroused him. But as he lay still, listening, he distinctly heard the crackle of a twig.
He crept to the door of the shelter, peering out.
The night was very dark but, even without switching on a flashlight, he could see a man moving stealthily toward the Scout automobile parked beyond the picnic tables.