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?”

The scout waved his hand carelessly.

“Of course,” he cried.

“Then,” said the baker, “my horse will run away!”

“What of it?” demanded the scout.  “Are Middleboro, South Middleboro, Rock, Brockton, and Boston to fall?  Are they to be captured because you’re afraid of your own horse?  They won’t shoot real bullets!  This is not a real war.  Don’t you know that?”

The baker’s boy flushed with indignation.

“Sure, I know that,” he protested; “but my horse—­he don’t know that!”

Lathrop slung his rifle over his shoulder and his leg over his bicycle.

“If the Reds catch you,” he warned, in parting, “they’ll take everything you’ve got.”

“The Blues have took most of it already,” wailed the boy.  “And just as they were paying me the battle begun, and this horse run away, and I couldn’t get him to come back for my money.”

“War,” exclaimed Lathrop morosely, “is always cruel to the innocent.”  He sped toward Carver Centre.  In his motor car, he had travelled the road many times, and as always his goal had been the home of Miss Beatrice Farrar, he had covered it at a speed unrecognized by law.  But now he advanced with stealth and caution.  In every clump of bushes he saw an ambush.  Behind each rock he beheld the enemy.