“Where is it, do you suppose?” asked one of the girls.
“Does it mean anything?” asked another.
It meant nothing to them, for there was not a scout in the car. And yet a mile or two farther along the dark road there hung a lantern on an upright stick, directly in their path, and scrawled upon a board below it was the word, “Stop.”
Out of the darkness stepped a figure in a white sweater (for the night was growing cold) and a large-brimmed brown felt hat. One of his arms was braced akimbo on his hip, the other hand he laid on the wind shield of the throbbing auto.
“Excuse me, did you come from Bennett’s in Bridgeboro?”
“Yes, we did,” said a musical voice.
“Then you’d better turn and go back; there’s a message here which says so.”
“Back to Bennett’s? Really?”
“I’ll read it to you,” said the boy in the white sweater.
He held a slip of yellow paper down in front of one of the acetylene headlights, and read,