“Beats me,” Step confessed. “What’s your notion, Sam?” Sam did not meet Poke’s inquiring glance. “I think,” he said slowly, “that something must have happened to show the Major that Groche hadn’t shot him.” “Huh! How do you make that out?” queried Step. “That’d mean somebody else did the shooting,” observed Poke, the philosopher. “The Major was hit, fast enough--peppered in the head and in one hand. And he didn’t do it himself.” “Of course not,” said Sam. “Therefore, some one else did. The Major was sure Groche was the some one. Then he wasn’t sure. In between he’d found out something. Q. E. D.--as the Shark would remark.” “Q. E. D.,” repeated Sam, for want of anything better. Step grunted. “Huh! Bet you he’d found out who was who and what was what! But that just thickens the fog.” “How so?” “Why didn’t he have the other fellow locked up in Groche’s place?” “Jiminy! that’s a good point!” cried Poke. Sam said nothing, and for a moment the three trudged on in silence. “Oh, well,” said Poke at last, “the Major knows now, but we’ll know sooner or later.” “How’s that?” Sam asked quickly. Poke shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, things are bound to come out. They always do. It’s just like a dog burying a bone--if he doesn’t dig it up, some other dog will.” “Don’t you believe a secret can be kept?” “Well, I can’t remember keeping many myself,” chuckled Poke. “And they say murder will out, you know. This wasn’t murder, of course, but it came uncomfortably near it.” “It sure did!” agreed Step. Sam dug his hands deeper in his pockets. Being human, and companionable, and very fond of Poke and Step, he had been sorely tempted to confide in his friends. But the Major had warned him not to gossip about the affair, and the Major’s wish naturally had great weight. As for Poke’s theory that the story would become known generally, sooner or later--well, Sam had his doubts. So far as he knew, only his parents and the Major shared with him knowledge of what had happened in the woods. In school that day Sam studied hard and paid close attention to the recitations. That was part of his plan for proving to his father that he could deserve confidence. When the class was dismissed, he made careful selection of the books he would need for home study, and so was a little behind his mates in leaving the building. Within a hundred yards of the school-ground gates, however, he overtook a group of boys, clustered closely about two disputants. One, as he saw, was Step; the other, Tom Orkney. From a little distance the Shark was regarding the squabble through his big glasses. “What’s the row about?” Sam asked as he came up. “Nothing!” said the Shark. “That’s why they’re making such a fuss.”