"Listen for trains," warned Tom.
"There won't be any along yet a while," said Roy. "There's one stopped
up there a ways now."
They could hear the shunting up the track, interspersed with faint
voices calling.
"Here's where he's put one over on us," said Roy. "Poor kid."
"Here's where he's been reading Sir Baden-Powell, you mean. Wait till I
see if he worked the boomerang trick. See that tree up there?"
It was amazing how readily Tom assumed that Pee-wee would do just what
he had done to elude pursuit.
"Tree's always a suspicious thing," said he; "this is a Boer
wrinkle--comes from South Africa."
He did not bother hunting for the tracks in the hubbly ground, but made
straight for the tree.
"Poor kid," was all he could say as he picked up a few freshly fallen
leaves and a twig or two. "He's good at climbing anyway." He examined
one of the leaves carefully with his flashlight. "Squint around," he
said to Roy, "and see if you can find where he stuck his staff in the
ground."
Roy got down, poking his light here and there, and parting the rough
growth.
"Here it is," said he.
Oh, it was all easy--too easy, for a scout. It gave them no feeling of
triumph, only pity for the stout-hearted little fellow who had tried to
escape them.
A more careful examination of the lower branches of the tree and of the
ground beneath was enough. Tom did not even bother about the prints
leading back to the railroad, but went back to the tracks and after a
few minutes picked up the trail again there.
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