LITMIR.BIZ

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wiping her hands on a gingham apron, appeared on the porch.

      “Lucindy, how many miles an hour? Jake’s bin run over agin,” he added suggestively.

      “Wa’al,” said Lucindy judicially, “it looked like sixty; but I reckin h’it warn’t more’n twenty-five.”

      “Humph!” snorted Applegate triumphantly, “an’ ther speed limit’s fifteen.”

      “Why, I wasn’t going more than ten miles!” cried the girl, flushing with indignation.

      “Huh! Tell that to ther justice. I’ll git my son to push yer machine out’n ther ditch an’ then I’ll hop in aside yer an’ we’ll drive into town.”

      “You’ll do no such thing! Why, the idea! Take your hand off my car at once, or – oh, dear! What shall I do?” she broke off despairingly.

      “You’ll drive me inter town or pay fifteen dollars, that’s what you’ll do,” declared Farmer Applegate stubbornly; “now then – hullo, what in ther name uv early pertaties is this a-comin’?”

      Around the same corner from which the auto had appeared with such embarrassing results to its pretty young driver came three well-built lads. One of them was rather fat and his round, good-natured face was streaming with perspiration from the long “hike” on which they had been. But his companions looked trained to the minute, brown-faced, lithe-limbed, radiating health and strength from their khaki-clad forms. All three wore the same kind of uniform, gaiters, knickerbockers, coats of military cut and broad-brimmed campaign hats. In addition, each carried a staff.

      “Hullo, what’s all this, Rob?” cried one of them as they came into full view of the strange scene, – the ditched auto, the flushed, embarrassed yet indignant girl, and the truculent farmer.

      “Consarn it all, it’s them pesky Boy Scouts from Hampton,” exclaimed Farmer Applegate disgustedly, as, in answer to the girl’s appealing look, the three youths stepped up, their hands lifted in the scout salute and their hats raised.

      CHAPTER II

      AN ANGRY FARMER

      “Can we be of any assistance?” asked Rob Blake of the girl, whose alarmed looks made it evident that she was in an unpleasant situation. He ignored the red-faced, angry farmer, but took note out of the corner of his eye of Jared, who was peeping out at them from behind a shed. Apparently he had no wish to appear on the scene while his late employer’s daughter was there. To himself he muttered: —

      “It’s that stuck-up Rob Blake, that butter-firkin, Tubby Hopkins and that sissy, Merritt Crawford. They’re always butting in when they’re not wanted.”

      The girl turned gratefully to the newcomers. Rob’s firm voice and capable appearance made her feel, as did no less her scrutiny of his companions, that here were friends in need.

      “Oh, thank you so much!” she cried. “I am Lucy Mainwaring, and you, I’m sure, are Rob Blake, leader of the Eagle Patrol. I’ve heard lots about you from my brother Fred, who is leader of the Black Wolf Patrol, First New York Troop.”

      “Yes, I’m Rob Blake, this is Merritt Crawford, my second in command, and this is Tub – I mean Robert Hopkins.”

      “I know all on yer,” growled out old Applegate, “an’ I tell yer to keep out of this. Just ’cause yer a banker’s son, young Blake, don’t give you no right ter come interferin’ where yer not wanted.”

      “Oh, but they are wanted!” cried the girl, before Rob could say a word. “This man says that I ran over one of his pigs. Why, it’s absurd. I only just bumped the animal, and there he is over there now fighting for his breakfast.”

      Her eyes fairly bubbled merriment as Jake’s raucous squeals rose belligerently from the neighborhood of the hog pens. Tubby spoke up.

      “If he can eat, he’s all right,” announced the stout youth with his customary solemnity.

      “But I’ve grazed the wretched pig twice before,” cried the girl, “and Mr. Applegate wants fifteen dollars or he won’t help me out of this ditch.”

      “That’s right,” confirmed the farmer, “fifteen dollars er she goes afore the justice fer – fer running over Jake.”

      “But she didn’t run over him,” retorted Rob, “and anyhow, fifteen dollars is an outrageous price to ask for your real or fancied injuries.”

      “The hog’s injuries,” corrected the farmer.

      “Same thing almost,” whispered Merritt to Tubby with a chuckle.

      “Come on, boys,” said Rob, “let’s help this young lady out of the ditch.”

      The girl turned on the power and the three Boy Scouts shoved with all their might at the rear of the machine. It quivered, started, stopped, and then fairly dashed up on to the road. So quickly had it all been done that before the farmer could make a move the runabout was on the thoroughfare.

      “Lucindy! Lucindy, let Towser loose!” yelled the old man as soon as he had recovered his senses.

      The woman ran off the porch and in a few seconds a big, savage-looking bull dog came bounding out, showing his red fangs and white teeth.

      The girl gave a little scream as the dog looked up at his master, apparently waiting an order to rush at the boys.

      “Go on!” Rob said to the girl in a quick, low whisper, “we’ll be all right.”

      “Oh, but I can’t! You’ve helped me – ”

      “That was our duty as Scouts. Now turn on your power and get away. We’ll find a way to deal with the old man, never fear.”

      Seeing that it was useless to remain, the girl applied the power once more and the machine shot out of sight.

      “Consarn you pesky brats,” roared old Applegate, fairly beside himself.

      “Sic ’em, Towse!” he shouted the next instant.

      Rob had been prepared for some such move as this. As the dog, with a savage growl, sprang forward, he brought his staff into play. There was a flash of the implement, a quick twist, and the astonished Towser found himself spinning backward in the direction from which he had advanced.

      “Don’t set that dog on us again,” cried Rob, in a clear, commanding voice, “if you do, he’ll get hurt.”

      “Consarn you!” bellowed the farmer again, “air you aidin’ and abettin’ lawless acts?”

      “As far as that goes, your hog had no business in the middle of the road,” was the quiet rejoinder.

      “I’ll go to law about this,” shouted the farmer furiously, brandishing his knotted fist. But he made no attempt to “sic” Towser on the boys again. As for that redoubtable animal, he stood by his master, his tail between his legs. To use the vernacular, he appeared to be wondering “what had struck him.”

      As there was nothing to be gained by remaining, the three Boy Scouts started off anew on the last stage of their “hike,” which had been one of twenty-four miles started the day before to visit a patrol in a distant town on the island. They struck off briskly, as boys will when home is almost in sight and appetites are keen. The farmer, seeing that nothing was to be gained by abusing them any further, contented himself by calling them “young varmints” and turned back toward his house.

      The boys had not proceeded many paces when they heard behind them the quick “chug-chug” of a motor cycle. Turning, they saw coming toward them a youth of about Rob’s age, mounted on a red motor cycle which, from the noise it made, appeared to be of high power. As he drew alongside them they noticed that he, too, was in Scout uniform, and that from the handle bars on his machine fluttered a flag with a black wolf’s head on it. The newcomer stopped his machine, nimbly alighted and gave the Scout salute, which the boys returned.

      “My name is Fred Mainwaring of the Black Wolf Patrol of the First New York Troop,” he announced, “have you seen anything of

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