many proffers of assistance Pee-wee made in the face of continuous rejection of his services.

The scout who accompanied Tom in the camp flivver was Brent Gaylong, a tall, lanky, wise-looking young fellow, who was in fact a sort of unofficial scoutmaster to a one patrol troop. The two most conspicuous things about him were a dry sense of humor and a pair of spectacles which perched halfway down his nose, giving him a whimsically mature and studious look; they seemed to remove him quite irrevocably from the field of thrilling adventure. Tom liked “Old Doctor Gaylong” as everybody did, for he was good company and an ideal companion for a journey.

CHAPTER X

Brent Gaylong sat on the middle of his back as he usually did and used the edge of the windshield for a foot rest. Tom drove the car. It was a Ford touring car and on the side of it in gilt letters was printed TEMPLE CAMP, BLACK LAKE, N. Y.

“A Ford’s the only car that has any romance about it, do you know that, Tom?” Brent spoke in his funny, drawling way. “There’s the same difference between the Ford and other cars as there is between a little old tavern and a modern hotel. Suppose somebody were to tell you the Waldorf-Astoria is haunted; you’d just laugh at him.

“The Ford is—you know—what d’you call it—picturesque. The Ford has the adventurous spirit. I’m for the Ford. In all this blamed automobile claptrap, the Ford’s the only car that has any personality. Did you read about that one that crossed the desert of Sahara? I’d rather be in the class with a camel than with a Cadillac. Old Fords especially. People do things with Fords; the Ford’s a good little old pal, shabby and romantic—like old Dyker. He’s a regular little old Ford.”

“You’re so crazy about romance and adventures and things like that,” said Tom in his matter-of-fact way, “would you be interested in a murder?”

“A good one?” Brent drawled.

“An old one,” Tom said. “The murderer is still at large. There was two thousand dollars offered for him but he was never caught. It happened, oh, ten or fifteen years ago.”

“That’s the kind I like,” said Brent. “All murders ought to be ten or fifteen years old. I like one where the wrong man goes up for life and then years after a young lawyer marries his daughter and hunts out the real murderer. New murders I don’t care about.”

“If you’ll be serious for a minute,” said Tom, “I’ll tell you about it and maybe you can help 

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