“But I don’t believe my father will know anything about it,” spoke young Ripley huskily.

“Then your father will want to know something about it,” Driggs went on.  “He’s a man of an inquiring turn of mind.  Let’s run up to his office together and ask him.”

“No, no, no!” urged Fred, his face growing paler.

“Then why were you here last night?”

“I wasn’t here,” protested the boy.

“Perhaps I can tell you why you were here,” Driggs went on, never losing his affable smile.  “You don’t like Dick Prescott, and you don’t like his boy friends.  Prescott has been too many for you on more than one occasion.  But that is no reason why you should enter my yard after midnight.  That is no reason why you should want to do harm to a war canoe or to any other property that happens to be in my yard.  I really don’t know whether you’re to be blamed for being a glib liar, Ripley.  You’ve never given yourself much practice at telling the truth, you know.  But I have this to say:  If anything happens to that canoe, or to anything else here, I shall make it my business to get hold of Officer Curtis, and he and I will drop in and show your father this chisel, and this piece of paper that it was wrapped in.  As you will see, Curtis has written his signature on the paper and on the handle of the chisel, so that he may identify them again at any time.  Now, Ripley, I won’t look for you to pay this yard any more visits except in a proper way and during regular business hours.  Good morning!”

Hiram Driggs held out his hand as smilingly as ever, and Fred took it in a flabby grasp, feeling as though he were going to faint.  Then without a word Ripley slunk out of the office, while Driggs gazed after him still smiling.

“The mean scoundrel!” panted Fred, as he hurried away, his knees trembling under him.  “There isn’t a meaner fellow in town than Hiram Driggs, and some day he’ll go and tell my father just for spite.  I know he will!  Now, I’ve got to find some good way to account for that paper and chisel I’ll put in the day thinking up my story.”

CHAPTER V

BIRCH BARK MERCHANTS

Away over on Katson’s Hill six high school boys, stripped to their undershirts and trousers, were toiling hard, drenched in perspiration and with hands considerably the worse for their hard work.

“What we’re finding out is that it’s one thing to strip bark for fun, and quite another thing to take it off in pieces large enough for a boat-builder,” Dick Prescott declared.

“It isn’t as fast work as I thought it would be, either,” Dave Darrin declared, running his knife slowly down the trunk of a young birch.

“What we need is to bring a grindstone along with us,” Tom Reade grunted, as he examined the edge of the largest blade in his jackknife.  “I simply can’t cut with this knife any more.”