He contemplated Pee-wee with a rather curious frown as he listened to what Ham and then Peter (greatly agitated) had to say.

Our young hero, indeed, presented anything but a creditable picture.  The old gray sweater used by the man who took care of the furnace in Pee-wee’s home, the cap which he held, and his grimy face, made him look like a terrible example of hoodlumism; a trolley-car hoodlum, an apple-stealing and stone-throwing and hooky-playing hoodlum; a hole-in-the-ball-field-fence hoodlum.  Nor did the terrible scowl with which he now challenged fate and the world help to make him look like the boy on the cover of the scout manual; the boy that Peter knew and worshipped.

“Well now,” drawled Peace Justice Fee, casting a tolerant side glance at Pee-wee, “you tell me this whole business and you tell me the plain truth.  See?”

“Sure I will,” Pee-wee said; “I’ll tell you all my adventures—­”

“Never mind about your adventures, and watch out, because the first lie you tell—­” The justice held up a warning finger.  “Now answer me this, never mind anything else; we’ll drop a plumb-line right down to the bottom of this thing and have no beating round the bush—­”

“I beat lots of bushes for rabbits,” Pee-wee vociferated.

“Well, don’t beat any here.  Now” (the justice spoke slowly and emphatically, shaking a long finger with each word), “who—­owns—­that—­car?  Careful now.”

“Mr. Bartlett, where I live—­in Bridgeboro.”

“Sure of that?”

“Sure I’m sure; didn’t I—­”

“Never mind what you did.  Now what’s this Mr. Bartlett’s full name?  Now—­now!” he added warningly, “just you answer the question I ask you and leave the rest to me.  If you tell the truth you won’t get in any trouble.”

Pee-wee, somewhat awed, at last subsided.  “Mr. James Bartlett,” he said.

[Illustration:  PEE-WEE BEFORE THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.]

Without another word, Mr. Fee drew in his long legs, arose, went over to where a book was hanging, looked in it, then took the receiver from the old-fashioned box telephone on the wall.  The party waited, greatly awed by this show of calm efficiency, and ability to get right at the heart of the matter.  Pee-wee was particularly elated, for presently his identity and whereabouts would be established and explained.  He listened, with growing interest as the justice, unperturbed by delays and mistakes, finally succeeded in securing the desired number.

“This two-four-eight-Bridgeboro?” Pee-wee heard.  “Sorry to get you up at this hour.  You Mr. James Bartlett?  Yes.  This is the peace justice at—­What?  I say this is the peace justice—­peace—­yes this is the peace justice—­justice of the peace—­at Piper’s Crossroads, Noo York State.  What?  Yes.  Noo York State.  Pipes?  No Piper’s—­Piper’s Crossroads.  Was your automobile stolen?  Your automobile.  What?  I say was your auto—­”