This frying-pan, instead of being filled with fat, was filled with woods, and a little to the west of the center, where an omelet might have nestled in its smaller prototype, three tents were concealed in the enshrouding foliage.  Down at the end of the handle of this frying-pan was good fishing, but it was marshy there, and sometimes after a heavy rain the handle was completely sub-merged.  From an airplane the three white tents in the western side of the pan might have seemed like three enormous poached eggs; that is, provided the aviator had an imagination.

It was upon the shore of this little island that the two young men who had driven the automobile from Bridgeboro pulled their boat ashore about ten minutes after they had all unknowingly locked Scout Harris in their makeshift lakeside garage.  Considering that they were cut-throats and ruffians and all that sort of thing, their consciences seemed singularly clear, for they laughed and chatted as they made their way along the few yards of trail which led to their lair, or den, or haunt, or cave, or whatever you care to call it.

They were greeted by a chorus of boys who jumped up from around the camp-fire where they had been seated making demands upon them for news and booty.

“How about it?  Can we stay here?”

“What kept you so long?”

“Did you get the silver cup?”

“I bet you didn’t find out?”

“I bet you ate supper in a restaurant.”

“We made rice cakes.”

“Did you get the cup?”

“Let’s see it.”

“They didn’t get it”

“Yes they did.”

“I bet they didn’t.”

“I bet they did.”

“Look at the smiles on their faces.”

“I bet we have the town hall wished on us.”

“I bet it’s the fire-house.”

“I feel it in my bones we have to go to school.”

“Let’s see the cup.”

“Did you eat?”

“What is this, a questionnaire?” asked one of the arrivals, the one who had driven the car.

“Let’s hear the worst.”

“Break it gently.”

“We thought your new junk wagon broke down.”

“Don’t say anything against his new junk Wagon or he’ll never tell us anything.”

“Did you put the baby to bed?”

“Yes and locked him in.”

“What kept you so late?”

“We got mixed up with a Bandit of Harrowing Highway.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s a villyan.”

“A which?”

“A movie play.”

“That’s a nice thing for two scoutmasters to go and see.  Your two troops are ashamed of you.”

“If our two troops don’t shut up—­”

“We’ll shut up—­come on, altogether!”

Followed a welcome silence.

“We’ve gone to a lot of trouble today for you kids,” said one of the scoutmasters.  “We’ve got the cup but we had to wait a couple of hours for it.  The merchants in the great metropolis of Bridgeboro are so slow that a turtle would be arrested for speeding there.  Poke up the fire, Nick, we’re cold, and I’ll tell you all about our adventures.  We’ve made a day of it, huh?”