I said, “Dorry, don’t talk like that, because you know you don’t mean it. If you meant it, you wouldn’t be a Silver Fox, you wouldn’t. And it’s just the same as telling lies about Harry Donnelle. I dare you to go and ask him about it; I dare you to; and see what he says. Maybe he’s reckless and crazy about adventures and doesn’t care anything about having money, and maybe he’s kind of as you might say wild. Maybe he flirts a lot with girls and likes to risk his life, maybe, but anyway, he’s fair and square, and he never did a mean thing in all his life. Mr. Ellsworth said so, and I guess he ought to know. If you think you’ve got a right to do that, go and ask Harry Donnelle. I dare you to. Go and tell him you know where that soldier is and that you’re going to notify his people up there near Plattsburg and claim the hundred dollars so you can get your motorcycle. Just go and do that.”
“Why should I do that?” he asked me. “What’s that noise?”
“It’s a hawk,” I said; “he’s after little birds in their nests. Don’t you remember how we wouldn’t name our patrol the Hawks, because they sneak— You voted against it yourself—you did.”
“I mean that other——”
“It’s just a cricket,” I said. “I’m glad we’re out here all alone. I’m glad it’s so quiet and dark. Maybe you can’t see in the dark, but you can see what’s right or wrong better in the dark, because I’m not mad—honest I’m not. You know what Tom Slade said about trails. Maybe he’s dead now, over in France; but anyway, you know what he said about trails.”
“He wanted a motorcycle, too,” Dorry said.
“Yes, but you know what he said about trails? How if you get thinking about doing something that isn’t fair and square, it just means you’re on the wrong trail. And you know yourself how hard it is to find the right trail if you once get started on the wrong one? Maybe you don’t think much about Tom Slade, these days, but I do. Often when nobody knows it, I do.”
“I don’t see anything wrong in it,” Dorry said; “we were the first to see him.”
“Then what makes you feel so mean about it?” I asked him. “What makes you ask me about a little sound like a cricket? It’s because you’re kind of rattled and you’re not sure, that’s why. Once a murderer went and confessed after hearing a cricket all night. Maybe you don’t know that it’s in a book how crickets start your conscience—maybe you don’t. Listen!”
He said, “You mean you’ll tell and you won’t help me?”