The rest of the boys "tumbled" to their patrol-leader's ruse. Without showing suspicion at the unusual orders, they set off in Indian file.
"It's a strange thing that we should lose our scoutmaster and find another who has lost his troop," remarked the patrol-leader. "Of course we may find him a little further on. We're nearly at the Three Bridges road now."
"So I believe," rejoined Oberfurst, whose keen ear had detected the steady tramp of armed men. "In that case you've taken me out of my way. No, I don't blame you, but I'll say 'Good night.'"
He stopped abruptly, determined to give his attentive companions the slip—in a seemingly casual manner if possible, failing that to make a dash for safety.
The patrol-leader waited no longer. A warning succession of blasts upon his whistle rent the night air. Oberfurst found himself confronted by a ring of staves.
His hand flew to his pocket. The patrol-leader caught the dull glint of metal. Like a flash his staff descended upon the spy's wrist. The pistol fell to the ground, while like a pack of hounds the boys threw themselves upon the German.
Of what happened during the next few seconds none of the scouts had a decided opinion. All they knew was that while they were attempting to secure the man as he lay kicking and struggling on the ground there was a muffled report. One of the lads, uttering an involuntary cry of pain, clapped his left hand to his right arm. The spy, after writhing convulsively for a brief instant, ceased to struggle.
Alarmed by the whistle and the pistol-shot, a number of soldiers and police hurried up to find their "man" lying insensible on the ground and the scouts rendering first aid to their wounded comrade.
"Here's the spy, sir," declared the patrol-leader, addressing an army officer. "He shot one of us, so we had to stun him."
The lieutenant bent over the prostrate Hun and flashed a torch-light in his face.