“And waiting to hear the explanation of the mystery that’s been bothering the whole patrol—leastwise, all but Bumpus and Step Hen, who ain’t any good just now at ferreting out things, because they do nothing but blow, blow all day long,” and Giraffe loomed head and shoulders above the rest of his mates as he faced Thad.
“Well, I’m going to pass it along now, and I want every one to take a good whiff, after which he is to give his opinion whether this is the offending package or not.”
Saying this the scout-master picked up a stout paper bag that had been lying at his feet, the top tied with a string, and handed it solemnly to Giraffe, who happened to be his next neighbor on the right.
“Our fine onions!” gasped Step Hen, as he recognized the shape of the bag.
Giraffe held the package up close to his nose, and seemed to draw in a long breath, after which he gave utterance to the one expressive word:
“Jerusalem!”
“What do you say, Giraffe?” demanded the patrol leader, grimly, “guilty or not guilty?”
The elongated scout immediately wagged his head vigorously in the affirmative.
“About the same class of odor that’s been bothering us right along, Thad, sure it is; and I just reckon you’ve been and run our trouble down. Them onions are getting old and soft, and everybody knows how rank they are when that happens. Whew! who’s next?”
“Pass it along!” demanded Bob White at his right shoulder; “I’m a good judge of onions, and I’ll soon settle this thing for you all.”