The picturesque young assistant, the very spirit and embodiment of adventure and romance, made a good deal of allowance for visiting scoutmasters and handbook scouts. He was broad and kind as the trees are broad and kind; exacting about big things, careless about little things. They knew all about scouting. He was the true scout. They had their manuals and handbooks. The great spirit of the woods was his. Hervey had made good. Why bother more about that?
So he just said, "Not hurt much, huh? Well, if you kids want to go up to camp, we'll take care of this job."
"Whose car is this, anyway?" asked Bert Winton. "I never saw it before. It's got bunged up a little, hey?"
Tom looked at the roadster rather interestedly, whistling to himself.
"It's gray," said Bert; "I never saw it before."
"It wasn't damaged in the flood," said Tom.
"Why wasn't it?" Roy demanded.
"Because it's facing down stream. Anything that hit it would have hit it in the back. I don't know whose it is, but it came here damaged, if you want to know."
"Sherlock Nobody Holmes, the boy detective," vociferated Roy. "We're not going to let it worry our innocent young lives, anyway, are we, Gilly? Oh, here comes somebody along the road! The plot grows thicker!"
Tom and Winton had cut through the woods, direct from the cove where they had been assisting in throwing together the makeshift dam. Fortunately the searchlight had made their journey easy. The figure which now approached along the road turned out to be Ebon Berry, owner of the wrecked garage, who had ventured forth from his home as soon as the storm had abated.