“Fired again, eh, Bill?” said one of the loungers.

There was a loud guffaw, and another man dealt Bill a resounding slap on the back.  Whereupon the sidewalk meeting adjourned.  As they passed between the swinging doors of the saloon, Tom touched the last man on the arm.

“Can you tell me where the constable’s office is, sir?” he inquired politely.

“I’m Constable Thompson,” replied the man, displaying his badge, for he realized that a Boy Scout would require some proof of the statement.  “What d’you want, sonny?”

Very briefly and to the point, Tom stated his case against the unknown thief who had broken into Ralph’s farmhouse during the previous night.  Then he showed Thompson the clews.  The constable examined them carefully, and seemed to recognize them.  While he was doing so, the man called Bill appeared in the doorway and beckoned for him to come inside.

“Ain’t you off’n the water wagon, Thomp?” he asked, with a repulsive
chortle.   “Come on!   What’s the mat------?”  He broke off abruptly
as his eyes fell upon the torn remnants in the constable’s hands. 
“What—–­what you got there?” he mumbled, turning pale.   “Got a
bargain in-----?”

“No,” replied Thompson curtly.  “Straight goods, Bill Terrill.  And it won’t be a bargain for—–­a burglar, unless I’m mistaken.  So long!  I’ve got to hustle or I may miss my guess and my man.”

So saying, he nodded to Tom to follow him and strode away, leaving Bill Terrill on the threshold of discovery.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SURVEYING SQUAD

Terrill’s words about “no foolin’ with that kid,” coupled with his startled look when he beheld the fragments of clothing, had started a train of reasoning in the constable’s mind.  All he said to Tom, however, was:  “Come with me, boy.  I’m not hankering for Bill’s company just now, though I may be keen to see him later.  Come along.”

Turning another corner, he led Tom across a vacant lot to a small, unkempt, dingy old house at the end of the path.  In the yard of this dwelling a woman was hanging clothes on a line and a number of mongrel hens were taking dust baths under some lilac bushes.  The breeze wafted the fragrance of these blossoms to Tom’s nostrils as he and Thompson approached them.

“Hello, Mrs. Terrill!” said Thompson.  “Busy day for you, eh?  Why don’t you make Bill help you with the wash?”

“Bill’s got enough to do washin’ his innerds—–­with liquor!” gruffly retorted the woman, who seemed to be greatly vexed, even angry, at the mention of her husband’s name.  “And just as if I haven’t put up with him time and time again about it!  I won’t do it no more!  And him daring to complain about my cookin’ and my not mendin’ his clothes!  Why, this mornin’ he come home late, with his coat all torn and his-----”

“What?” almost shouted Thompson.  “What did you say, there m’am?”