“Three weeks have gone by since we had that first meeting, Tom; just think of it.”
Carl was walking along the river road with his chum when he made this remark. They had seen the last of the snow vanish, and with the coming of milder days all the boys began to talk of going fishing before long.
Perhaps this saunter of the pair after school may have had something to do with the first contemplated outing of the season, and they wanted to see whether the fish had commenced to come from their winter quarters, though the law would not be off for trout yet awhile.
“That’s a fact, Carl,” replied the other boy; “and at our very next meeting most of the members of the patrol are going to get their badges as second-class scouts, because they’ve already qualified for it to the satisfaction of Mr. Witherspoon.”
“Honest to goodness I believe there’ll be only one tenderfoot left in the lot,” Carl continued; “and that of course is our dude, Horace. He managed to exert himself just enough to fulfill the requirements a tenderfoot has to possess, but there he sticks.”
“Wait a while longer,” Tom told him, “and one of these fine days you may see Horace wake up. I haven’t lost hopes of him by a long shot. At our next meeting, after we’ve passed up, the first thing we have to do is to elect a patrol leader.”
Carl laughed softly.
“Oh that’s all cut and dried, already,” he asserted.
“Well, if it is no one has said anything to me about it,” objected Tom, at which the other laughed again.
“Why should they bother when it was seven against one, Tom?” argued Carl. “Why, the boys wouldn’t dream of having any other leader than you!”