“No; I have no use for boys that carry guns,” replied Tom.
“You’re sensible enough,” responded the constable seriously. Then, resuming his bantering tone, he went on:
“But you ought to be ready for anything to-night. Here, put this in your pocket.”
“What’s this thing supposed to be good for?” Tom demanded dryly, as he took from the officer a cheap little bronze toy pistol. It was modeled after a business-like revolver, but a glance showed that it was meant only to explode paper caps.
“It belongs to my five-year-old boy,” laughed Jennison. “He knows that I often carry a pistol and he doesn’t know the difference between a real one and his Fourth of July toy. So to-night, when I was leaving the house, he insisted on my taking his pistol and I had to in order to keep him quiet.”
“It looks dangerous enough in the dark,” remarked Joe, bending over and taking the “weapon” with a laugh. He looked it over, then returned it to Tom, who, in turn, offered it to the officer.
“Drop it in your pocket,” said the latter. “It ought to make you feel braver to feel such a thing next to your body.”
With a laugh Tom did as urged. The automobile soon made another stop at a boatyard. Here, again, the search was useless, so they kept on. A fourth was visited with no better result. They were now ten miles from Wood’s Hole, but they kept on. A mile further on the car descended a low hill, toward the water, then turned almost at right angles. Just as they rounded this bend in the road Halstead leaned suddenly forward.
“Stop!” he called to the chauffeur.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jennison, as the car halted.