reeze
bore the strain he was singing down to where stolid Tom stood and he
smiled, then suddenly became tensely interested as he listened. Tom
often wondered where Hervey got his songs and ballads. On the present
occasion this is what the blithe minstrel was caroling:

Saint Anthony he was a saint,
And he was thin and bony;
His mother called him Anthonee,
But the kids they called him Tony.

CHAPTER XXX

HERVEY MAKES A PROMISE

"_Tony!_"

The word reached Tom's ears like a pistol shot. _Tony._

His mother called him Anthonee,
And the kids they called him Tony.

Anthony--Tony. Why, of course, Tony was the universal nickname for
Anthony. And if any kids were allowed within the massive iron gates at
the Harrington Estate, undoubtedly they called him Tony.

Tom, holding the turtle like a big rubber stamp, printed the letters
several times on the ground--H. T. He scrutinized them, in their proper
order on the turtle's back--T. H. Tony Harrington.

Could it be? Could it really mean anything in connection with that lost
child? Was it possible that while Detective Something-or-other, and
Lieutenant Thing-um-bob, and Sheriff Bullhead and Captain
Fuss-and-feathers were all giving interviews to newspaper men, this
sturdy little messenger was coming down to camp with a clew, straight
from the hiding place of a pair of ruffians and a little boy with a----

_With a new jack-knife!_

Tom was thrilled by this fresh thought. For half a minute he stood just
where he was, hardly knowing what to do, what to think.

"You're a good scout, Llewellyn," he finally mused aloud; "old Rough and
Ready--slow but sure. Do you know what you did, you clumsy old ice
wagon? You brought a second-class scout badge and an Eagle award with
you. And I'd like to know if you brought anything else of value. That's
what I would."

But Llewellyn did not hear, at least he did not seem at all impressed.
His head, claws and tail were drawn in again. He had changed himself
into a rock. He was a good detective, because he knew how to keep
still.

Tom strolled up to supper, as excited as it was in his nature to be, and
greatly preoccupied.

On his way up he dropped Llewellyn into Tenderfoot Pond, a diminutive
sheet of water, so named in honor of the diminutive scout contingent at
camp. He would have room enough to spend the balance of his life resting
after his arduous and memorable journey. And ther