When Step Hen so naively hinted that the patrol leader may have suspected a spell of bad weather was due, when he ordered them to be sure and fetch along their rubber ponchos, there was a craning of necks, as everybody tried to set eyes on the face of Thad. Of course Giraffe had the advantage here, on account of that long neck of his, which he often thrust out something after the style of a tortoise when the land seems clear.
“How about that, Mr. Scout Master?” asked Bumpus.
Thad Brewster had a right to be called after that fashion, for he had duly qualified for the position, and received his commission from scout headquarters, empowering him to take the place of the regular scout master, when the latter could not be present. As Dr. Philander Hobbs, the young man who gave of his time and energies to help the cause along, found himself unable to accompany the scouts on many of their outings, the necessity of assuming command frequently fell wholly on Thad, who had always acquitted himself very well indeed.
Thad laughed as he noted their eagerness to hear his admission.
“I’ll have to own up, fellows,” he went on to say frankly, “that I did read the paper, just as Davy Jones says happened with him; and when I saw the chances there were of a storm coming down on us, I made up my mind we ought to go prepared. But even if we didn’t have a rubber poncho along I wouldn’t be afraid to wager we’d get through in pretty decent shape.”
“That’s right, Thad,” commented Giraffe; “after scouts have gone the limit, like we did down South last winter, when the schoolhouse burned, and we had a fine vacation before the new brick one was completed, they ought to be able to buck up against nearly anything, and come out of the big end of the horn.”
“Horn!” echoed Bumpus, involuntarily letting his hand fall upon the silver-plated bugle he carried so proudly, and the possession of which told that he must be the bugler of the troop—“Horn! that reminds me I haven’t had a chance to use my dandy instrument only at reveille and taps for quite some time now.”
“Well, don’t start in now, Bumpus, whatever you do,” remonstrated Step Hen. “To my mind a horn’s a good thing only on certain occasions. Now, when I’m just gettin’ the best sleep after sun-up it’s sure a shame to hear you tooting away to beat the band.”
“But none of us make any sort of a row when he blows the assembly at meal times, I notice,” Smithy remarked sagely; and not a protest was raised, showing that in this particular the members of the patrol were unanimously agreed.
The last exploit of the scouts had taken them into the Far South, in fact among the lagoons and swamps of Louisiana; and although some months had since passed, it would seem as though the events of that thrilling experience were still being threshed out whenever the eight boys came together.