There was no response to the knock, and so George opened the door and entered.  There was no one in front of the fire; no one in any of the rude chairs.  The boy stood looking about the room for a moment and then walked back to three bunks fastened against the wall, one above the other.

When he reached the front of the sleeping places an exclamation of alarm came from a bundle of furs and blankets on the lower bunk and a boy’s frightened face gazed up at him.  The boy sat observing the other with evident suspicion for a moment, until his eyes caught sight of the Boy Scout medals which adorned the sleeve of the lad’s coat.

Then he extended an arm in the full salute of the Boy Scouts of America, and sat back with a grin on his face to note the result.

“Beaver Patrol; Chicago,” he said directly.

“I know you,” George said with an exclamation of surprise.  “You’re Thede Carson, and you’re about the toughest little wharf rat in Chicago!”

“That’s a nice recommend for a patrol leader to give one of his scouts,” grinned the boy.  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

“The last time I saw you,” George said, smiling at the memory, “you were diving into the South Branch to keep out of sight of a police boat.”

“I remember that,” grinned Thede.  “They said I’d been swiping bananas up in Gambler’s alley, and that wasn’t true.”

“Well, how in the name of all the seven wonders of the world did you get into the Hudson Bay country?” demanded George.

“Old Finklebaum,” answered Thede.

“Old Finklebaum?” repeated George.  “Do you mean the old Shylock who does business under the three balls down on State street?  You can’t mean that he had anything to do with your appearance here?”

“You bet he did have something to do with my being here!” Thede insisted.  “You see, it’s just this way:  Old Finklebaum says to me one day, ’I’ll take the hair off Ikey’s head for selling that Little Brass God!’”

George gave a quick start of surprise at the mention of the very article the Boy Scouts had come to the Hudson Bay country in quest of, but checked himself in a second.

“What did he have a—­a—­what did you say it was?—­if he didn’t want to sell it?” asked the boy in assumed surprise.

“He did want to sell it up to that very day,” was the reply, “but no one wanted to buy it.  Then a man came into the shop and said he’d give a thousand dollars for it on sight.  So Finklebaum, having the Little Brass God within a foot of his hawkbill nose, takes the man’s address and says he’ll let him know if he hears anything about the thing in demand.  Finklebaum thinks that if the man’ll pay one thousand dollars for it, he’ll pay five, and that’s why he loses out.”

George’s interest was now so intense that the boy ceased speaking and sat regarding him steadily for a moment.

“What do you know about the Little Brass God?” he demanded.