Saint Anthony he was a saint,
        And he was thin and bony;
      His mother called him Anthonee,
        But the kids they called him Tony.

CHAPTER XXX

HERVEY MAKES A PROMISE

“Tony!”

The word reached Tom’s ears like a pistol shot. Tony.

      His mother called him Anthonee,
        And the kids they called him Tony.

Anthony—­Tony.  Why, of course, Tony was the universal nickname for Anthony.  And if any kids were allowed within the massive iron gates at the Harrington Estate, undoubtedly they called him Tony.

Tom, holding the turtle like a big rubber stamp, printed the letters several times on the ground—­H.  T. He scrutinized them, in their proper order on the turtle’s back—­T.  H. Tony Harrington.

Could it be?  Could it really mean anything in connection with that lost child?  Was it possible that while Detective Something-or-other, and Lieutenant Thing-um-bob, and Sheriff Bullhead and Captain Fuss-and-feathers were all giving interviews to newspaper men, this sturdy little messenger was coming down to camp with a clew, straight from the hiding place of a pair of ruffians and a little boy with a——­

With a new jack-knife!

Tom was thrilled by this fresh thought.  For half a minute he stood just where he was, hardly knowing what to do, what to think.

“You’re a good scout, Llewellyn,” he finally mused aloud; “old Rough and Ready—­slow but sure.  Do you know what you did, you clumsy old ice wagon?  You brought a second-class scout badge and an Eagle award with you.  And I’d like to know if you brought anything else of value.  That’s what I would.”

But Llewellyn did not hear, at least he did not seem at all impressed.  His head, claws and tail were drawn in again.  He had changed himself into a rock.  He was a good detective, because he knew how to keep still.

Tom strolled up to supper, as excited as it was in his nature to be, and greatly preoccupied.

On his way up he dropped Llewellyn into Tenderfoot Pond, a diminutive sheet of water, so named in honor of the diminutive scout contingent at camp.  He would have room enough to spend the balance of his life resting after his arduous and memorable journey.  And there he still abides, by last accounts, monarch of the mud and water, and suns himself for hours at a time on a favorite rock.  He is ranked as a scout of the first-class, as indeed he should be, but he is frightfully lazy.  He is a one stunt scout, as they say, but immensely popular.  One hundred dollars in cash was offered for him and refused, so you can tell by that.

After supper Tom sought out Hervey.  “Herve,” he said, “I don’t suppose you ever tried your hand at keeping a secret, did you?  Where’s your Eagle badge?”

“My patrol has got it.”