"Was this scout a Frenchman, then?" asked Benny.
"No, he was of English parentage, one of the finest English country gentlemen who ever lived, but born in America, and one of the greatest American scouts.
"He was a friend of yours, too, Skinny," he added, laughing to himself.
"Not me," Skinny told him, shaking his head. "I think a lot more of England than I did, on account of General Baden-Powell and the Boy Scout business, but I don't know this feller."
"That is strange. It seems to me that I have heard you remark something about his being able to lick Napoleon Bonaparte with one hand tied behind his back."
"George Washington!" shouted Skinny. "The Father of his Country. First in——"
"Say, who's tellin' this story, anyhow?" said Bill, pulling Skinny over and sitting on him.
"Yes, George Washington, who, it seems to me, would have made the finest kind of a Boy Scout in his younger days—a scout worthy of membership in Raven Patrol. He seems to have had all of the Scout virtues. He was trustworthy, loyal to his home and his native land; he was thrifty; he was brave; he was reverent."
"I'll bet he couldn't bandage a broken leg like we can," Benny told him.
"Maybe not, but he could find his way through the forest and he didn't go around shooting at girls, thinking that they were bears. He liked girls too well for that. I believe he liked the girls better, even, than our patrol leader does."