It is the duty of Woodcliff Lake to supply water to many thousands of homes and the quietude of its shores and water breathes a kind of cleanliness and purity, which imparts to the lake a character quite its own. An unique feature of it is the causeway which bisects it, forming twin lakes, as it seems to the nearby beholder. But from a distant elevation this straight clean roadway across the very center of the lake stands out in bold relief, having none of the appearance of a bridge nor yet of a dam. From this causeway people are permitted to fish and their good luck is contemplated enviously by auto parties passing to and fro.
The scouts had no difficulty in finding the home of Miss Helen Shirley Bates in this fair neighborhood. They were told to go up a road till they came to another road and to go up that road till they saw a gray house, etc., which direction brought them at last face to face with an electric button which Pee-wee pushed.
By the luck which he claimed to be his, a girl of perhaps nineteen or twenty came to the door, who proved to be none other than the young lady of the calling card. Here, however, Pee-wee’s luck deserted him.
“We’re boy scouts and this is your card,” said the young spokesman. “Do you like fudge?” he added, producing also a specimen of his confectionery skill.
“Oh I just adore it,” said the girl, “but where did you get my card? Won’t you sit down?”
The scouts were glad to rest in the comfortable wicker chairs on the deep, shady porch, and here the girl listened to Pee-wee’s graphic account of his finding of the old wallet. He explained that it was his regular custom to find things and that this need give her no surprise.
“But to think that it had my card in it,” she said; “and that it has been stuck away in that damp, spooky place for two years. I think it’s just wonderful for you to come and find me. And I think it’s lovely for you to want to send the letter to that soldier’s mother; oh I think it’s just fine.”
“Scouts have to do good turns,” Pee-wee said.
“It makes me feel as if I can just see that soldier now,” she said, reading the old letter. “And to think he was on his way here. But I just don’t know any more about him than you do because he never got here. I just don’t know a single thing about him.”
“Not even his name?” Warde asked, hopefully.