“Well,” said the man in a drawling but ominously conclusive tone, “my name is Rodney, Birchel Rodney; and this is Mr. Wise, Mr. Barnabas Wise.  We came from East Ketchem.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Scoutmaster Ned.  “I’m happy to meet you, gentlemen.  This is a sort of table d’hote scout outfit that you see here; two troops and a couple of sundries.  Will you stay and have supper with us?”

“We ain’t fer interferin’ in no boys’ pleasures,” said Mr. Barnabas Wise, “but it’s our dooty to tell you that we’re the school committee of the village of East Ketchem, and s’long as these youngsters hez moved inside the taown limits of East Ketchem they’ll hev to report for school at nine o’clock to-morrow morning.  The taown line between East Ketchem and West Ketchem runs right through the middle of this island.”

A gaping silence followed this horrible pronouncement.

“We—­eh—­we are just camping here, pending—­” began Scoutmaster Ned.

“It ain’t no question uv pendin’,” said Mr. Birchel Rodney.  “The ordinance of the village of East Ketchem says that every minor—­”

“We’re not miners, we’re scouts!” Pee-wee shouted.

“The ordinance of the village of East Ketchem,” Mr. Rodney proceeded, ignoring the boisterous interruption, “says that every minor, which is spelled with a o, between the ages of eight years and fifteen years, resident or visiting or otherwise domiciled—­”

“You can’t say I’m domiciled—­” Pee-wee began.

“Or otherwise domiciled,” the terrible man continued, “must attend school in said village except upon cause of illness—­”

[Illustration:  “WE’RE NOT MINERS, WE’RE SCOUTS!” PEE-WEE SHOUTED.]

“I’m sick a lot,” Pee-wee yelled.

“I expect to have a cold very shortly,” said Nick in his funny way.

“Determined and certified by a physician in good standing.  Them’s the very words of the village law and we come to tell you that all these youngsters will hev ter report for school at nine A.M. to-morrer morning, in said village of East Ketchem.”

“Foiled!” said Nick, falling back on the ground.

“Horrors and confusion!” said Fido Norton.

“That we should live to hear this!” moaned Charlie Norris.

“Oh, what have we stepped into?” another groaned, holding his forehead in a way of despair.

“You mean what have we been drawn into!” said another.  “Oh, that it should come to this!”

“What have we done?  What have we done?” sighed still another.

As for Scoutmaster Ned, he gave one terrific groan (or perhaps it was a roar of abandoned mirth) and fell backward off the grocery box.

Only the fixer remained silent.  His eyes stared, his mouth gaped.  But not a word said he.  It was Napoleon at Waterloo.  Scout Harris had no words.  Or else he had so many that they got jumbled up in his throat and would not come out.  And as he stood there, bearing up under that mortal blow, the conquering legion, consisting of the two members of the East Ketchem school board, withdrew with an air of great collusiveness and dignified solemnity to the shore.