In a minute he came up sputtering and shouting.

“What’s that?  A hunk of candy?” a scout sitting on the springboard called.  For Pee-wee seldom returned from any adventure empty handed.

“A tu-shh-sphh——­” Scout Harris answered.

“A which?”

“A turtshplsh—­can’t you hearshsph?”

“A what?”

“A turtlsh.”

“A turtle?”

“Cantshunderstand Englsphish?”

He dragged himself up on the springboard dripping and spluttering, and clutching this latest memento of his submarine explorations.

“It’s a turtle—­t-u-r-t-e-l—­I mean l-e—­can’t you understand English?” Pee-wee demanded as soon as the water was out of his mouth and nose.

“Not submarine English,” his companion retorted.  “You can’t keep your mouth shut even under water.”

It was indeed a turtle, which had already adopted tactics for a prolonged siege, its head, tail and four little stubby legs being drawn quite within its shell.  Nor was it tempted out of this posture of defense when Pee-wee hurled it at Tom Slade who was standing near the mooring float, watching the diving.

“There’s a souvenir for you, Tomasso,” Pee-wee called.

Tom caught the turtle and was about to hurl it at another scout who stood a few yards distant, when he noticed something carved on the upper surface of the turtle’s shell.  He pulled up a tuft of grass, rubbing the shell to clean it, and as he did so, the carving came out clearly, showing the letters T. H.

The scout who had been ready to catch the missile now stepped over to look at it, and in ten seconds a dozen scouts were crowding around Tom and craning their necks over his shoulders.

“Somebody’s initials,” Tom said without any suggestion of excitement.

“Maybe—­maybe it was that kid who was kidnapped,” Pee-wee vociferated.

“Only his initials are A. H.,” Tom answered dully.

“No sooner said than stung,” piped up one of the scouts.

“What’ll we do with him?  Keep him?” asked another.

“What good is he?” Tom said, apparently on the point of scaling the turtle into the lake.  “Some scout or other cut his initials here, that’s all.  I don’t see any use in keeping him; he isn’t so very sociable.”

“Lots of times you crawl in your shell and aren’t so sociable, either,” Pee-wee shot back at him.  “I say let’s keep him for a souvenir.”

“We’ll have a regular Bronx Park Zoo here pretty soon,” a scout said.  “We’ll have to give him a name just like Asbestos.”

Tom set the turtle on the ground and everybody waited silently.  But the turtle was not to be beguiled out of his stronghold by any such strategy.  He remained as motionless as a stone.  Pee-wee gave him a little poke with his foot but to no avail.  They turned him around, setting him this way and that, they tried to pry his tail out but it went back like a spring.