“Hurry up!” repeated the lieutenant.

Just how the situation might have ended is uncertain.  How it did end was in an unexpected manner.  From the rear of the trio, from the top of the sandy ridge separating the beach from the meadow, a new voice made itself heard.

“Well, Rayburn, what’s the trouble?” it asked.

The lieutenant turned briskly, so, too, did Mr. Winslow and his vis-a-vis.  Standing at the top of the ridge was another officer.  He was standing there looking down upon them and, although he was not smiling, Jed somehow conceived the idea that he was much amused about something.  Now he descended the ridge and walked toward the group by the fire.

“Well, Rayburn, what is it?” he asked again.

The lieutenant saluted.

“Why—­why, Major Grover,” he stammered, “we—­that is I found this man here on the Government property and—­and he won’t explain what he’s doing here.  I—­I asked him if he had seen anything of the plan and he won’t answer.  I was just going to put him under arrest as—­as a suspicious person when you came.”

Major Grover turned and inspected Jed, and Jed, for his part, inspected the major.  He saw a well set-up man of perhaps thirty-five, dark-haired, brown-eyed and with a closely clipped mustache above a pleasant mouth and a firm chin.  The inspection lasted a minute or more.  Then the major said: 

“So you’re a suspicious character, are you?”

Jed’s hand moved across his chin in the gesture habitual with him.

“I never knew it afore,” he drawled.  “A suspicious character is an important one, ain’t it?  I—­er—­I’m flattered.”

“Humph!  Well, you realize it now, I suppose?”

“Cal’late I’ll have to, long’s your—­er—­chummie there says it’s so.”

The expression of horror upon Lieutenant Rayburn’s face at hearing himself referred to as “chummie” to his superior officer was worth seeing.

“Oh, I say, sir!” he explained.  The major paid no attention.

“What were you and this man,” indicating the big carpenter, “bristling up to each other for?” he inquired.

“Well, this guy he—­” began the workman.  Major Grover motioned him to be quiet.

“I asked the other fellow,” he said.  Jed rubbed his chin once more.

“He said I was a German spy,” he replied.

“Are you?”

“No.”  The answer was prompt enough and emphatic enough.  Major Grover tugged at the corner of his mustache.

“Well, I—­I admit you don’t look it,” he observed, dryly.  “What’s your name and who are you?”

Jed told his name, his place of residence and his business.

“Is there any one about here who knows you, who could prove you were who you say you are?”

Mr. Winslow considered.  “Ye-es,” he drawled.  “Ye-es, I guess so.  ’Thoph Mullett and ’Bial Hardy and Georgie T. Nickerson and Squealer Wixon, they’re all carpenterin’ over here and they’re from Orham and know me.  Then there’s Bluey Batcheldor and Emulous Baker and ’Gawpy’—­I mean Freddie G.—­and—­”