ate
license; that in the wheel-ruts the tires printed little V's, like
arrow-heads.

For a week Jimmie saw nothing of the spy, but for many hot and dusty
miles he stalked arrow-heads. They lured him north, they lured him
south, they were stamped in soft asphalt, in mud, dust, and fresh-spread
tarvia. Wherever Jimmie walked, arrow-heads ran before. In his sleep as
in his copy-book, he saw endless chains of V's. But not once could he
catch up with the wheels that printed them. A week later, just at sunset
as he passed below Round Hill, he saw the stranger on top of it. On the
skyline, in silhouette against the sinking sun, he was as conspicuous as
a flagstaff. But to approach him was impossible. For acres Round Hill
offered no other cover than stubble. It was as bald as a skull. Until
the stranger chose to descend, Jimmie must wait. And the stranger was in
no haste. The sun sank and from the west Jimmie saw him turn his face
east toward the Sound. A storm was gathering, drops of rain began to
splash and as the sky grew black the figure on the hilltop faded into
the darkness. And then, at the very spot where Jimmie had last seen it,
there suddenly flared two tiny flashes of fire. Jimmie leaped from
cover. It was no longer to be endured. The spy was signalling. The time
for caution had passed, now was the time to act. Jimmie raced to the top
of the hill, and found it empty. He plunged down it, vaulted a stone
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