It was the same figure which had haunted the dunes, listening to the camp-fire revelry upon the boy scouts’ first night in camp, the same which had so suddenly appeared upon the marshes near the pup-seal’s creek.
But distress seemed now to lie heavier upon that vagrant figure, instead of diminishing. For, as he still studied the light-girdled form of the signalman, Dave Baldwin vented a groan full and unmistakable, and blew upon a pair of burned hands.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LOG SHANTY AGAIN
“This fire has been the work of some incendiary—that’s what I think!” was the opinion delivered later that night by the captain of the nearest fire-brigade, who, with his company, had been summoned by Leon’s signaled message, passed on via telephone wires by the lighthouse men.
“Of course, it may have been a case of accident or spontaneous combustion, but the former seems out of the question, seeing that the houses were empty, and the latter not probable,” went on the grizzled chief. “Anyhow, I congratulate you on your boys, Mr. Scoutmaster! Under your leadership they certainly did good work in saving this whole summer colony.”
“So they did; I’m proud of them!” returned the scoutmaster impulsively, which made the three patrol leaders within hearing, Scout Warren of the Owls, Godey Peck of the Foxes, and Jesse Taber of the Seals, straighten their tired bodies, feeling repaid.