No doubt he even pictured that mother as suffering all sorts of agonies just because he had been so careless; for he often declared it was going to be a terrible lesson to him, and break him of some of his bad habits.
But then he also eyed Giraffe and Davy suspiciously whenever they came near him, as though he rather expected to hear them once more make disparaging remarks about the odors they claimed came from the old and greasy suit he insisted on wearing while in the swamp, instead of soiling his brand new one; but they failed to do anything to stir him up, from one reason or another.
“There’s Thad beckoning to us to all come over,” said Step Hen.
“He’s found something or other, I warrant you,” Davy remarked; “because I could see him nosing around. Tracks, chances are ten to one, you mark what I say.”
For once Davy proved a true prophet, for as they came up to where the young scout-master was standing, Thad pointed to the ground, and then went on to remark:
“When you fired that shot, and knocked over the shoat, Giraffe, you builded better than you knew. Look right here, and you’ll see where a man was crawling along on his hands and knees, bent on entering our camp. He must have thought you’d taken a shot at him, for here’s where he whirled around behind this tree, and then made off in a stooping posture as fast as he could move, always trying to keep a clump of bushes between himself and the camp. And the man your shot scared off, Giraffe, was a barefooted escaped convict too, as the signs seem to prove!”
CHAPTER VII.
THE HEART OF A SCOUT.
“That’s interesting news, Thad!” Step Hen declared.
“The way you say that makes me think you mean ‘interesting, if true,’” Thad remarked, with a little laugh. “In other words, you want me to prove it.”
“Oh! well, we’re all such a lot of slow-witted scouts that we have to be shown; just like we’d come from Missouri,” admitted the other, in a tone that was meant to serve as an apology.