CHAPTER II

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

The Cubs’ bare knees were splashed with mud as they pounded along the lane, looking out keenly for the little scraps of white paper that formed the “scent” of the hares.

“Phew!” panted one of the hounds, “I’m hot.”

“Stick--to--it!” panted back his pal.

“Are we downhearted?” called Jim Tate, the Sixer, as he had heard Tommies call out at the end of a long route march.

“No--o--o!” came the answer right down the road, for some Cubs were getting left behind.

But Danny, having lived all his life in London, had not done much in the way of long runs. He had got a bad stitch in his side almost at once, but remembering the second Cub Law--“A Cub does not give in to himself”--he had set his teeth, and determined to bear the pain, and not to give in. Then his legs began to ache as if they were ready to break. But he stuck out manfully. Finally his wind gave out.

“I’m done,” he gasped.

“No, you aren’t,” called his Sixer. “Here--hang on!” and he held out a hand to his recruit. “We shall get them, I bet. We’ve kept it up hot so far.”

Just then the white paper showed up a bank, and over the fence, into a field. With a howl the Cubs scrambled up the grassy bank, clinging to weeds and sticks and stones, and were soon in full cry across the grass. On they went, and through a hedge on to the road beyond. But there was no “scent” on the road; no paper showed on the brown mud.

“False trail!” groaned the hounds.

“Bad luck,” called Jim, the Sixer, “we must go back. We may get them yet.” And the hounds dashed off again across the field to get back to the old “scent.” But it was too much for Danny. He sank down, tired out.

“They _can_ run!” he said. And he thought, a little sadly, that they would think him a rotter to have fallen out. “I stuck it as long as I could,” he said. “I did my best--I couldn’t do more.”

He was just going to start back to Headquarters when something happened which was the first step in the curious adventures that befell him from that day onwards.

“Swish-sh-sh!” sounded the tires of a bicycle on the muddy road, as it flew past him like a streak. The rider was bareheaded and seemed in an awful hurry. Then something happened that made Danny jump up and start running down the road for all he was worth, quite forgetful of his weary legs. A dog had jumped out from the hedge, and, in trying to avoid running over it, the cyclist had skidded badly, and now lay quite still on the road.

Danny panted down the muddy lane, hoping the man was not dead, but, before he reached the place where the accident had happened, the stranger had got up and was sitting on the bank, his head in his hands.

“Can I help you, sir?” said Danny eager to do a good turn.

The young man started and looked up at the boy with wild eyes; then peered about him and looked up and down the road, as if he were afraid of being followed. Blood was streaming down his face from a nasty gash in his forehead.

“Can I help you, sir?” repeated Danny. “Let me tie up your head--it’s bleeding badly.”

“Thank you,” said the young man in a shaky voice.

Danny was glad to find he had put a large, clean handkerchief in his pocket before starting. He knew enough about first aid to realise the danger of putting on an open wound anything that is at all dirty. So he opened out the handkerchief and laid the part that had been folded up inside, on the wound. What could he use as a bandage? There was nothing handy.

So, with a sigh of regret, he realised he must sacrifice his beautiful new brown neckerchief. He took it off and folded it neatly into a “narrow bandage.” This he tied firmly around the young man’s head, securing it with a reef knot.

“You’re a bit shaky, sir, aren’t you?” he said. “My home is in the next village. Won’t you come back and rest? Mother will give you some tea, and I’ll run for a doctor. I think your head will want stitching.”

“No, thank you,” said the young man quickly, looking down the road again. “I assure you I am quite all right now. I was just a little stunned. I thank you for your assistance, my little friend.”

There was something curious about the way the man spoke. Danny wondered what it was. “Foreigner,” he said to himself, as he picked up the bicycle and held it for the stranger.

“Could you tell me the way to Thornhurst?” asked the man.

Danny thought a moment, and told him as well as he could.

“Thank you,” said the stranger. He was about to mount his bicycle when a thought seemed to strike him. Turning to the Cub, “Little boy,” he said, “should any person ask you if you have seen me on this road, tell them you have seen _no one_--no one at all.”

Danny grinned.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “Can’t tell a lie.”

The man swore under his breath. “Little fool,” he muttered.

Then he held out a bright half-crown. “That will keep you quiet,” he said.

Danny flushed, and then laughed scornfully. “Not much--it won’t,” he cried.

“Well,” said the man angrily, “tell them I’ve gone to Thornhurst, and am taking a train to London. I shall be in Dover to-morrow. You won’t forget--London and Dover.”

Danny nodded, and the man jumped on his bicycle and rode away.

“He’s a queer chap,” said Danny, “and I bet there’s something on somewhere. Wish I knew what it was.” The detective spirit was roused in him. Suddenly he forgot all about Cubs and paper-chases. He was a private detective again, as in the old London days. Kneeling on the ground, he examined the man’s footprints in the mud, and made a sketch of them and of the bicycle tracks in his notebook. Then, feeling very important, he wrote a short report of the adventure in his pocket-book, added the date (July 1, 1914), and started off across the fields to get back to the Pack Headquarters.

About half a mile on, his path lay across the yard of an old deserted