wall, forced his way through a tangle of saplings, and held his breath
to listen. Just beyond him, over a jumble of rocks, a hidden stream was
tripping and tumbling. Joyfully, it laughed and gurgled. Jimmie turned
hot. It sounded as though from the darkness the spy mocked him. Jimmie
shook his fist at the enshrouding darkness. Above the tumult of the
coming storm and the tossing tree-tops, he raised his voice.

"You wait!" he shouted. "I'll get you yet! Next time, I'll bring a gun."

Next time, was the next morning. There had been a hawk hovering over
the chicken yard, and Jimmie used that fact to explain his borrowing the
family shotgun. He loaded it with buckshot, and, in the pocket of his
shirt buttoned his license to "hunt, pursue and kill, to take with traps
or other devices."

He remembered that Judge Van Vorst had warned him, before he arrested
more spies, to come to him for a warrant. But with an impatient shake of
the head Jimmie tossed the recollection from him. After what he had seen
he could not possibly be again mistaken. He did not need a warrant. What
he had seen was his warrant--plus the shotgun.

As a "pathfinder" should, he planned to take up the trail where he had
lost it, but, before he reached Round Hill, he found a warmer trail.
Before him, stamped clearly in the road still damp from the rain of the
night before, two lines of little arrow-heads pointed the way. They were
so fresh that at each twist in the road, lest the car should be just
beyond him, Jimmie slackened his steps. After half a mile the scent
grew hot. The tracks were deeper, the arrow-heads more clearly cut, and
Jimmie broke into a run. Then, the arrow-heads swung suddenly to the
right, and in a clearing at the edge of a wood, were lost. But the tires
had pressed deep into the grass, and just inside the wood, he found the
car. It was empty. Jimmie was drawn two ways. Should he seek the spy
on the nearest hilltop, or, until the owner returned, wait by the car.
Between lying in ambush and action, Jimmie preferred action. But, he did
not climb the hill nearest the car; he climbed the hill that overlooked
that hill.

Flat on the ground, hidden in the golden-rod he lay motionless. Before
him, for fifteen miles stretched hills and tiny valleys. Six miles away
to his right rose the stone steeple, and the red roofs of Greenwich.
Directly before him were no signs of habitation, only green forests,
green fields, gray stone walls, and, whe