One other item of news interested the camp community, and that was that boy scouts throughout the country had been asked to search for the missing child.
Meanwhile, the kidnappers sat tight, expecting no doubt that their demands for a large ransom would be more fruitful after the chances of legitimate rescue had been exhausted. The great fortune of Anthony Harrington of Wall Street was quite useless until a couple of ruffians chose to say the word. And meanwhile, Master Anthony, Jr., might be hacking himself all to pieces with a horrible jack-knife.
It was just when matters were at that stage that Pee-wee Harris, Elk Patrol, First Bridgeboro Troop, went in swimming for the last time that summer in the cooling water of Black Lake. He gave a terrific cry, jumped on the springboard, howled for everybody to look, turned two complete somersaults and went kerplunk into the water with a mighty splash.
CHAPTER XXVIII
WATCHFUL WAITING
In a minute he came up sputtering and shouting.
“What’s that? A hunk of candy?” a scout sitting on the springboard called. For Pee-wee seldom returned from any adventure empty handed.
“A tu-shh-sphh——” Scout Harris answered.
“A which?”
“A turtshplsh—can’t you hearshsph?”