They planned the search methodically.

“I saw a lot of Boy Scouts one day clear up the field in Central Park in which they had been drilling,” said Tom Watkins.  “They stretched in a long line across the whole field and then they walked slowly along looking for anything that might have been dropped in the course of their evolutions.”

“Did they find much?”

“You’d be surprised to know how much!”

“Let’s do the same thing here.  If we stretch across the field then every one is responsible for just a small section under his eyes—­”

“—­and feet.”

“—­and feet.  I wish we had an arrow head to show the women so they’d know exactly what to look for.”

“Father had one in the cabinet,” said Roger, “and I put it in my pocket for just this purpose.  I don’t know where he got it, and it may not be of exactly the kind of stone these New Jersey Indians used, but it will show the shape all right.”

“They always used flint, didn’t they?” asked Margaret.

“Flint or obsidian or the hardest stone they could find, whatever it was.”

“Bone?”

“Sometimes.  I saw quite large bone heads at the Natural History Museum.”

“I’ve seen life-size boneheads frequently,” announced James solemnly, not smiling until Roger and Tom pelted him with bits of sod.

The arrow head was passed from hand to hand and every one studied it carefully.  Then they stretched across the field and began their search.  The result was not very satisfactory from Dicky’s point of view, for he concluded that he need not have worried as to how the load was to be carried home.  There were only seven found.  Of these, however, Dicky found two, one by his unaided efforts and the other through Ethel Blue’s taking pains not to see one that lay between him and her.  Nobody else found more than one and several of them found none at all, so Dicky, after all, was hilarious.

In a corner of the field they built a fire and heated water for the tea in a kettle thrust among the coals.  Ears of corn still in the husk were roasted between heated stones, bits of bacon sizzled appetizingly from forked sticks and dripped on to the flames with a hissing sound, and biscuits, fresh from Moya’s oven, were reheated near the blaze.

It was while they were sitting around the fire that Dicky’s mind turned to the remainder of the Indian’s equipment.

“What did he do with thith arrowhead?” he inquired.

“He tied it on to the end of an arrow, and shot bears with it.”

“What’th an arrow?”

“A long, slender stick.”

“Do you throw it?”

“You shoot it from a bow.”

“What’th a bow?”

“A curved piece of wood with a string connecting the ends.”

“How doeth it work?”

Roger heaved a sigh and then gave it up..

“Me for the bushes,” he cried.  “Language fails me; I’ll have to make a bow and arrow.”