New Jersey, and Connecticut to show themselves.  But the man knew, and had known for several years, that on the road to Carver was the summer home of one Beatrice Farrar.  As Private Lathrop it was no part of his duty to know that.  As a man and a lover, and a rejected lover at that, he could not think of anything else.  Struggling between love and duty the scout basely decided to leave the momentous question to chance.  In the front tire of his bicycle was a puncture, temporarily effaced by a plug.  Laying the bicycle on the ground, Lathrop spun the front wheel swiftly.

“If,” he decided, “the wheel stops with the puncture pointing at Carver Centre, I’ll advance upon Carver Centre.  Should it point to either of the two other villages, I’ll stop here.”

“It’s a two to one shot against me, any way,” he growled.

Kneeling in the road he spun the wheel, and as intently as at Monte Carlo and Palm Beach he had waited for other wheels to determine his fortune, he watched it come to rest.  It stopped with the plug pointing back to Middleboro.

The scout told himself he was entitled to another trial.  Again he spun the wheel.  Again the spokes flashed in the sun.  Again the puncture rested on the road to Middleboro.

“If it does that once more,” thought the scout, “it’s a warning that there is trouble ahead for me at Carver, and all the little Carvers.”

For the third time the wheel flashed, but as he waited for the impetus to die, the sound of galloping hoofs broke sharply on the silence.  The scout threw himself and his bicycle over the nearest stone wall, and, unlimbering his rifle, pointed it down the road.

He saw approaching a small boy, in a white apron, seated in a white wagon, on which was painted, “Pies and Pastry.  East Wareham.”  The boy dragged his horse to an abrupt halt.

“Don’t point that at me!” shouted the boy.

“Where do you come from?” demanded the scout.

“Wareham,” said the baker.

“Are you carrying any one concealed in that wagon?”

As though to make sure the baker’s boy glanced apprehensively into the depths of his cart, and then answered that in the wagon he carried nothing but fresh-baked bread.  To the trained nostrils of the scout this already was evident.  Before sunrise he had breakfasted on hard tack and muddy coffee, and the odor of crullers and mince pie, still warm, assailed him cruelly.  He assumed a fierce and terrible aspect.

“Where are you going?” he challenged.

“To Carver Centre,” said the boy.

To chance Lathrop had left the decision.  He believed the fates had answered.

Dragging his bicycle over the stone wall, he fell into the road.

“Go on,” he commanded.  “I’ll use your cart for a screen.  I’ll creep behind the enemy before he sees me.”

The baker’s boy frowned unhappily.

“But supposing,” he argued, “they see you first, will they shoot?”