“Where are you going?” asked the aide. “Nobody’s allowed to leave until after Recall.”
“None of your business—and if you ask me, I think you’re nothing but a spy on us for this Wally of yours.” He dived into the bushes and disappeared before Haviland could follow.
Not only did he want the fun of tormenting Ken, but also wishing to look over the famous council ring, he took a course through the woods that he thought would bring him out at the place he sought. It was quiet; the camp was still even for a Sunday afternoon. He pressed through the underbrush and in a short time stumbled upon a well-worn path that led in the direction he was going. Shortly he caught a glimpse of white birch railings through the leaves, and he trod softly in case there should be anyone there who might question him. His precaution proved to be wise. From a clearing ahead came the low hum of men’s voices.
A circle some fifty yards across had been cleared in the woods, and seats built about it, with an imposing stone dais on the north side to furnish a proper elevation for the chieftain. Sitting on this stone were the Chief himself and Wally Rawn, chatting together.
They had not seen him, and it struck Blackie that it might be a daring thing to get close enough to overhear their conference. Forgetful of the old saying that eavesdroppers seldom hear well of themselves, he wormed his way around through the bushes and found a place where he could listen without being seen.
“I approve of the life-saving crew assignments you’ve made, then, Wally,” the Chief was saying. He rose as if to leave. “By the way, what do you think of the bunch I’ve put in your tent?”
“They look pretty good,” answered Wally. “They ought to turn out first-rate after a couple of days. Haviland is a pretty capable kid, and Slater is bugs about stars and scouting and doesn’t give much trouble. That Crampton lad is lazy, but I hope to have him get over that when we get out on the hikes.”
“You have two fellows I put in with you because they need pretty careful leadership. Know who they are?”
“Think I do, Chief—Gallegher and that Blackie Thorne.”
“Right. Gallegher comes from the worst part of town, and I think he may have picked up a lot of questionable habits. Thorne is a different sort. He’s lively and smart as a whip; but his father is dead and maybe he’s getting to be too much for his mother to handle alone. He’s full of mischief, his scoutmaster tells me, but he ought to turn out right. They’re a pair of hard cases, I guess; but keep them busy and they’ll soon be real Lenape fellows.”