"Yes?" Mr. Perkins smiled encouragement.
"We ain't got no tub," said Johnnie, "so my neck's 'bout as far as I ever git."
Then the moment for which he had been waiting: "And you think you'd like to be a scout?" inquired Mr. Perkins.
"Oh, gee!" sighed Johnnie. He relaxed from sheer excess of feeling. His head tipped back against his chair, and he wagged it comically. "Wouldn't I jus'! And wear clothes like yours, and—and learn t' s'lute!"
Mr. Perkins laughed, but it was a pleasant, promising laugh. "We'll see what can be done," he said briskly. "And to begin with, how old are you?"
Johnnie opened his mouth—but held his tongue. He guessed that age had something to do with being a scout. But what? Was he too old? But the boys who had marched past him were as tall as he, if not taller. Then was he too young? Taken unaware, he was not able quickly to decide what the trouble might be. But he had not lived five years at Tom Barber's without learning how to get himself out of a tight corner. This time, all he had to do was tell the absolute truth. "I don't 'xac'ly know," he answered.
"Mm!" Mr. Perkins thought that over. Presently, adjusting his glasses, he looked Johnnie up and down, while anxious swallows undulated Johnnie's thin neck, and about his knobs of knees the long fringe of the big trousers trembled. "But we can find out how old you are, can't we?" Mr. Perkins added, with a sudden smile.
"I guess I'm ten goin' on 'leven," capitulated Johnnie.
"Ten going on eleven! That's splendid! It's the best age to begin getting ready to be a scout! The very best!"
"Gee! I'm glad!"