The boy who answered to the peculiar nick-name of “Giraffe” laughed when the stout, auburn-haired member of the trio, known as Bumpus Hawtree, made this assertion.
“Oh! I’ve got it down to a fine point, Bumpus,” he remarked with a touch of boyish pride in his voice; “I’ve found out how to make mind win over matter. When I lay me down to sleep I just tell myself to forget all troubles; and after counting a hundred sheep jumping over a fence I lose myself the finest way you ever saw. Try it yourself, Bumpus, and see how it works.”
“As a rule I don’t have any trouble getting my forty winks, and you know that, Giraffe,” the fat boy continued, sadly; “but just now I’m terribly worried about my mother back there in Antwerp. Whatever would she do if this war does break out, so helpless to get away by herself, because of that paralysis she’s trying to have cured by a specialist?”
“We’ve given you our promise, Bumpus,” said the one called Thad, “that we’d stick by you through thick and thin, and do everything in our power to get to Antwerp. So cherk up and try to feel that it’s all going to come out right in the end.”
“Thad, a scout never had a better chum than you’ve always been to me,” Bumpus acknowledged, with a trace of tears in his eyes, as he laid his hand on the other’s khaki sleeve; “and I’m going to do my level best to see the silver lining of the cloud. But it’s tough being hemmed in by a whole army like we are, and given to understand that it’s impossible to enter Belgium again until the skies clear.”
These three boys who wore the well-known uniform of scouts were seated in a boat that had apparently been used as a means for descending the historic Rhine.
Thad Brewster was the leader of the patrol to which the others belonged. It was known as the Silver Fox, and formed a part of Cranford Troop. He had worked his way up until his field of experience was so broad that it entitled him to take the place of the regular scout master of the troop when the latter could not accompany the boys on their outings.
Giraffe was really known to his teachers in school as Conrad Stedman. His ancestors had come from this same Rhine country long ago, and as the boy had made a specialty of German in school he was able to jabber fairly well during their trip down the beautiful river. Giraffe came by his nick-name honestly. He had been given an abnormally long neck by a bountiful Nature, and on occasion it seemed as if the boy could even stretch this out to an astonishing extent, just as the giraffe does. He never complained because every one of his mates called him by such a name, for if it hadn’t been that he must surely have been dubbed “Rubber-neck,” which would have been infinitely worse.
Bumpus Hawtree also had another more dignified name, that of Cornelius Jasper, but it was utterly unknown among his comrades. Whether on the baseball field, in camp, on the trail, in a boat, or any other place where boys might gather it was always plain Bumpus. No one knew exactly why that peculiar name had been given to the fat boy, except that being clumsy he was always stumbling into trouble, and given to bumping against his chums.
These boys, with some others connected with the Cranford Troop of scouts, had seen considerable in the way of adventure since the first day they organized their Silver Fox Patrol. Wonderful opportunities had come to them whereby they were allowed to visit the Blue Ridge country down in North Carolina; go to the Maine woods on an outing; cross the continent to the great Rockies and enjoy a hunt for big game in the wilderness; and even take a trip down into the Sunny South, where amidst the swamps of Louisiana they had encountered numerous remarkable adventures.