Besides being a farmer in a small way, Jimmie's father was a handy man with tools.He had no union card, but, in laying shingles along a blue chalk line, few were as expert.It was August, there was no school, and Jimmie was carrying a dinner-pail to where his father was at work on a new barn.He made a cross-cut through the woods, and came upon the young man in the golf-cap.The stranger nodded, and his eyes, which seemed to be always laughing, smiled pleasantly.But he was deeply tanned, and, from the waist up, held himself like a soldier, so, at once, Jimmie mistrusted him.Early the next morning Jimmie met him again.It had not been raining, but the clothes of the young man were damp.Jimmie guessed that while the dew was still on the leaves the young man had been forcing his way through underbrush.
The stranger must have remembered Jimmie, for he laughed and exclaimed:
"Ah, my friend with the dinner-pail! It's luck you haven't got it now, or I'd hold you up.I'm starving!"Jimmie smiled in sympathy."It's early to be hungry," said Jimmie; "when did you have your breakfast?""I didn't," laughed the young man."I went out to walk up an appetite, and I lost myself.But, I haven't lost my appetite.
Which is the shortest way back to Bedford?""The first road to your right," said Jimmie.
"Is it far?" asked the stranger anxiously.That he was very hungry was evident.
"It's a half-hour's walk," said Jimmie "If I live that long," corrected the young man; and stepped out briskly.
Jimmie knew that within a hundred yards a turn in the road would shut him from sight.So, he gave the stranger time to walk that distance, and, then, diving into the wood that lined the road, "stalked" him.From behind a tree he saw the stranger turn and look back, and seeing no one in the road behind him, also leave it and plunge into the woods.
He had not turned toward Bedford; he had turned to the left.Like a runner stealing bases, Jimmie slipped from tree to tree.Ahead of him he heard the stranger trampling upon dead twigs, moving rapidly as one who knew his way.At times through the branches Jimmie could see the broad shoulders of the stranger, and again could follow his progress only by the noise of the crackling twigs.When the noises ceased, Jimmie guessed the stranger had reached the wood road, grass-grown and moss-covered, that led to Middle Patent.So, he ran at right angles until he also reached it, and as now he was close to where it entered the main road, he approached warily.But, he was too late.There was a sound like the whir of a rising partridge, and ahead of him from where it had been hidden, a gray touring-car leaped into the highway.The stranger was at the wheel.Throwing behind it a cloud of dust, the car raced toward Greenwich.Jimmie had time to note only that it bore a Connecticut State license; that in the wheel-ruts the tires printed little V's, like arrow-heads.
For a week Jimmie saw nothing of the spy, but for many hot and dusty miles he stalked arrow-heads.They lured him north, they lured him south, they were stamped in soft asphalt, in mud, dust, and fresh-spread tarvia.Wherever Jimmie walked, arrow-heads ran before.In his sleep as in his copy-book, he saw endless chains of V's.But not once could he catch up with the wheels that printed them.A week later, just at sunset as he passed below Round Hill, he saw the stranger on top of it.On the skyline, in silhouette against the sinking sun, he was as conspicuous as a flagstaff.But to approach him was impossible.For acres Round Hill offered no other cover than stubble.It was as bald as a skull.Until the stranger chose to descend, Jimmie must wait.And the stranger was in no haste.The sun sank and from the west Jimmie saw him turn his face east toward the Sound.A storm was gathering, drops of rain began to splash and as the sky grew black the figure on the hilltop faded into the darkness.And then, at the very spot where Jimmie had last seen it, there suddenly flared two tiny flashes of fire.Jimmie leaped from cover.It was no longer to be endured.The spy was signalling.
The time for caution had passed, now was the time to act.Jimmie raced to the top of the hill, and found it empty.He plunged down it, vaulted a stone wall, forced his way through a tangle of saplings, and held his breath to listen.Just beyond him, over a jumble of rocks, a hidden stream was tripping and tumbling.
Joyfully, it laughed and gurgled.Jimmie turned hot.It sounded as though from the darkness the spy mocked him.Jimmie shook his fist at the enshrouding darkness.Above the tumult of the coming storm and the tossing tree-tops, he raised his voice.
"You wait!" he shouted."I'll get you yet! Next time, I'll bring a gun."Next time, was the next morning.There had been a hawk hovering over the chicken yard, and Jimmie used that fact to explain his borrowing the family shotgun.He loaded it with buckshot, and, in the pocket of his shirt buttoned his license to "hunt, pursue and kill, to take with traps or other devices."He remembered that Judge Van Vorst had warned him, before he arrested more spies, to come to him for a warrant.But with an impatient shake of the head Jimmie tossed the recollection from him.After what he had seen he could not possibly be again mistaken.He did not need a warrant.What he had seen was his warrant--plus the shotgun.
